


white silence

by aldonza



Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [5]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Beating, Blood and Injury, Branding, But heavy on the hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Erik needs a hug, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Erik (Phantom of the Opera), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Permanent Injury, Pharoga - Freeform, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Self-Hatred, Whump, and so does Nadir, rosy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23309317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldonza/pseuds/aldonza
Summary: There is nothing left of Erik to break. But Nadir knew the little Sultana would find a way. She always did.Sequel to "the bone that breaks."
Relationships: Darius & The Persian, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Series: The Little Sultana's Favourite Pastime [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574986
Comments: 50
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And here's part 5! All warnings in the tags! There will be #comfort, but the #hurt comes strong in the first chapter. Warning: in addition to the tags, there were parts of this that were genuinely painful for me to write; this might not make sense without the context from the previous 4 stories

_The first time they forced him into a coffin, he kicked and screamed. Then he begged, a pathetic “please” upon his lips. He’ begged and promised to do anything they wanted. Anything at all. “Really?” those voices had said, “Really?” And he did not fight back. But when all was said and done, they pushed him into the coffin anyway and slammed the lid shut. He’d clawed until his nails split off._

_And when the cover slid out, he stared back at a dozen or so faces, each peering closer to gawk at the Living Corpse. He’d tried to bury himself in his arms, tried to twist his naked body until he disappeared. But they tied him down instead, ropes cutting skin so his face at least could be seen. And still he continued to beg- he would never try to hide his face again, he would give them no more trouble, he would not bite or scratch, he would be but a dumb dog- if only they did not shut the lid._

_“Corpse has a point,” they’d said, “coffin’s too small. It’s gotten taller.” For a moment, he’d hoped they would let him out. He would do anything they asked and he would never try to run again. But then they’d said, “Easy fix.”_

_A foot kicked him back and when his chest crunched, he cowered in. They folded his arms across the broken rib, tied him down, and shut the lid, leaving just a slit enough for him to breathe. And it had hurt. It had hurt so much that he forgot how to beg._

_“Then beg!” the girl had said. That voice did not belong to them. That voice-_

As the Sultana’s face entered his mind, Erik awoke, the pain in his chest so sharp it produced a moan. Yes, those days were long behind him. He was not that boy any longer. His cracked lips parted, a slow sigh passing through as his senses returned. A fog of dull agony followed, as if a lash of fire had coiled around his very being. 

It was dark, a mist of black before his eyes. Cool stone lay beneath his back, a damp chill settling within his bones. He shifted, shoulders bumping into closed walls. He made to touch the stone in front when he found that he could not move his arms. They remained bound at his chest, double slings keeping them wedged in place. He wiggled his fingers, the digits numb as he felt for gauze.

Then he was not dead. But this- he knew all too well- was a coffin, not a bed. 

He recounted what had brought him here, a slow recollection of events that played out as if he had never partook. Yes, he remembered Erik pitching each spike in a fevered haze. He remembered Erik preparing the cuts of lamb. He remembered Erik’s vow to die and the blows that fell on him. He remembered the lion’s roar by Erik’s ear. He remembered Erik killing Abed.

And this whole time, he felt as if he’d simply watched from his place in the dark. Perhaps Erik really had died- as he should have- and he was- 

He smelled smoke. It drifted in from above. His eyes fell on a small hole, the size of a fingertip and just enough for air to stream in. The tendrils entered his lungs and as it stabbed at his eyes, he coughed and wheezed. His ribs burned, every crack bursting as he choked. _And he remembered Norrson’s hand against his throat, the myriad blows raining on him as he dodged, Abed’s eyes as he fell-_

“So you’re awake,” a sugary voice cooed, “I knew you wouldn’t die.”

He sputtered on, the smoke rendering his world a cloud of burning dust.

“I was most displeased by what you did, Erik.”

And it hurt.

“So I think some punishment is in order.”

It hurt.

“His majesty can replace you any time he wants. _I_ am the one that wishes to keep you.”

It hurt until he no longer knew where the coughs ended and he began.

“Beg, Erik, and I might forgive you.”

The smoke left and as his lungs cleared, Erik felt himself again fade away, the pain dulling to nothing as he thought, monsters did not deserve forgiveness, himself least of all.

* * *

Voices.

They spoke in blurs, like the sound of moving ink, a picture and nothing more.

“It’s bad, his leg. I may have to amputate it if his condition worsens.”

He knew that voice. It was the old physician. He felt fingers on his right leg, itself bound in cast and gauze. Were they speaking of his leg? Amputate, he thought. Could he still move without it?

“Cut off both his legs for all I care,” the Sultana said.

He waited, eyes adjusting to the bleary sight in front. The lid of his coffin had since come off, and he was propped in a room of dim candlelight, the walls far too close and the ceiling much too low. His limbs remained bound, every inch of him burning too much to move. Had they dipped him in fire as he slept? Or had he been buried underground, next to Abed’s cold face?

“Magician, can you hear me?” the physician said.

It was indeed cold. He shivered again.

“Your highness, a quilt. He’s freezing.”

“Then let him freeze.”

Her fingers touched his face, nails digging into swollen skin until blood broke out. “It’s time he learned what happens to those that fall out of favor.”

Erik felt his eyes slip shut, too disoriented to stay awake. The physician’s words turned into foreign mumbles as the doctor again prodded at his wounds.

* * *

Hours- perhaps days- passed. Erik was none the wiser. He slept and woke in a cycle of blurred black, the coffin’s lid his only sky. And the only sound he knew was the dull hum of his heart and the wretched gasps that were his breaths.

He heard no voices again- for how long, he could not know. The Sultana did not come back. And he lay in the coffin’s stone embrace, limbs bound tight and blankly gazing into air. Wounds would weep and break, sharp reminders that he still lived, and as the blood pooled beneath him, he would wonder how long it took before he drowned.

Then he would sleep. And when he woke, those dressings would again be changed. 

He did not miss the sounds of men. But he often wondered if he would ever hear a bird’s chirp again. He tried to recall the purr of a cat and the daroga’s naggy tone. And when he thought of Nadir, he remembered the sound of Abed’s laughs. And Abed’s screams. 

And soon he could hear nothing but his own sobs, silently weeping as he begged for penance in the dark. 

* * *

Someone fed him in silence, a blindfold across his eyes. A man, perhaps, held him from behind while another spooned broth into his dry mouth. And Erik did not protest, too limp to do anything save obey. Norrson had fed him at the English camp, and he’d learned that it was too much of an effort to fight back.

“Does it have to eat the whole bowl?”

“Follow orders. If it bothers you, look away.”

Fingers clamped his jaw, the spoon scraping the roof of his throat. “Why bother keeping a thing like this alive?”

And he was tired of fighting back.

He let the food dribble out, throat too sore to swallow more. And perhaps it’d gotten on his caretaker’s hand. 

“Eat, damn you!”

He was struck in the jaw for that. And struck again until he finished the next bite. 

Then they pried his bandages apart and rinsed him down with a basin of water. He cried out once or twice, the cold water stinging gashes and leaving him freezing to the bone. As he whimpered, they padded him down with a rough cloth, and soon he was thrust back into the stone coffin, its bottom cleaned of blood and waste. 

“Must we return? It’s disgusting.”

“I told you to follow orders. Now shut your trap.”

The lid slammed shut and he was left with the chill of fever and the harsh sting in his shredded leg. It was for the best. All his life, he had tried to change what had been so clear to see. He deserved the dark and grime, for he had never been anything but. 

* * *

He wondered if the wind still blew outside. He imagined the rustle of leaves against the coffin’s walls. But it was only the rush of silence in his ears, dead noise rolling through his head. Like blank waves that washed and drowned and faded away. Perhaps it was the blood thrumming in his veins.

The broth- sometimes bread- was bland and he could not recall the taste of anything on his tongue. Only the grumbles of his caretakers and the burning aches in his flesh. Once, water dripped in from the hole above, and as his lips parted to let the drops through, he’d convinced himself it rained outside.

Then footsteps left. And the rain followed, leaving him dry again.

He could not think- and that was his only blessed relief- because the pain eclipsed any thought he had. A thousand knives in his back and a thousand blades in his chest. And even that was dulled by the fire in his bones. Once he heard the word, “morphine,” and as he struggled to remember what it meant- whatever it was, he yearned for it then in that sea of hurt- he wished for the other words that followed “at least… opium… laudanum.” 

“No,” the girl’s voice said, “he brought this on himself. Let him feel his handiwork.”

He fell away in the dark, hot skin against cold stone. And when he awoke, he still saw nothing but black ahead. The lid slid off and blinded by blurs of color, he moaned aloud, trying in vain to wriggle away from rough hands. They seized him and yanked him out. As he struggled and groaned- the pressure of palms on angry wounds- a cloth slipped around his face, folding against his eyes.

“There! Stop moving!”

He heard a whimper, then another, groans that echoed with each expansion of his chest. 

“Why’s it so loud today?”

He landed on the floor, feeling hands tear the dressings apart. The familiar sting of water- cold- followed, and he cried out.

“Do something. We can’t get this done if the damn thing’s doing this.”

“Hold on.”

A hand pried his jaw apart. And his teeth bit into a ball of cloth, the wad stuffed down until it pressed against his throat. They tied the gag and his muffled moans disappeared. He lay shivering as fresh gauze bound him from head to toe.

“Look at its leg. Should we tell them?”

“Might as well.”

Hands dragged him up again. When his back slammed into the coffin floor, they ripped the fold of cloth off. The gag remained and the lid returned.

* * *

Time stood still in his coffin and the ghosts came to him in his sleep, or perhaps when he was awake. Each man’s face stared back from that low stone ceiling, eyes bulging and lips blue, their necks snapped in half. He had snapped those necks himself. He had thought himself the reaper and he’d taken such pride in each death. 

As tears rolled down each man’s face, Erik wept along. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do for a hundred more grieving mothers and sons. And somehow the silence made it worse.

Sometimes the gag remained between his teeth. And he could only weep through the taste of cloth. But when it came time to feed, they would forget to stuff the gag back in, and Erik could again hear the sound of his pointless apologies.

When Norrson spoke- after so long buried away- Erik welcomed the English voice, each word like a ripple of glass. He felt the gloved hands wrap around his shoulders, Norrson lying beside him in the coffin’s narrow space. He could not push the man away.

“Stop struggling,” Norrson whispered, “how many have you killed?”

Norrson’s arms were tight, and as the breath left him in a choked squeeze, Erik shook his head. 

“And what about your poor, unhappy mother? You ruined her too.”

He wished the gag was back. Then he did not have to say, “I-”

“Just as you ruined that boy.”

Norrson crushed his ribs, and Erik remembered Abed’s smiling face, the crumbs of a cake on his lips as they tended the greenhouse. He remembered Abed’s body falling limp upon the ground. And across from Norrson, he saw another head, a boy’s masked face and bright amber eyes. 

“Monsieur, what’s your name?” the child asked.

Wedged between him and Norrson, Erik shook his head, shuddering as the Englishman bobbed against his wounds.

“I’ve always wanted a name,” the boy went on.

 _“Please,”_ he said, _“please leave me-”_

He felt sweat gather, Norrson oblivious to the bandages crumbling apart.

“Was there ever a king named Erik?” the boy mused, “yes, I should like that name.”

The child’s bony fingers stroked his weeping face, gentle as he brushed the tears away.

“Don’t cry, Monsieur. I know it hurts, but you mustn't cry.”

Norrson’s palms dug into the punctures in his back. But Erik had forgotten about him. He only saw the masked boy to his left.

 _“Erik is no king,”_ he whispered to the child, _“Erik is a monster.”_

The boy nestled against him, thin arms wrapping around his bandaged shoulders. And Erik leaned into his grip, unable to stifle the sobs.

“Would you like me to sing for you, Monsieur?”

He nodded, all else fading away as a lullaby left the child’s lips.

* * *

“The fever’s risen.”

The stone was gone. He felt the soft curve of a mattress beneath his spine and a coat draped atop his frame. There was no blindfold, but he could not find the strength to open his eyes. He heard the physician (ah, that voice he had missed) speak in low tones and the Sultana’s angry retorts. He winced at her voice, but he had missed it regardless.

He had missed sound- not the noises of his grumbling caretakers- in his ears.

“He’ll get his quilt when he earns it!” she said.

She smacked him in the side of his head, and Erik heard himself moan.

“Your highness, I don’t mean to offend,” the physician said, “but if you wish for him to live, this cannot continue. You see for yourself how severe his injuries are. He needs proper care, not-”

“Not what? Say it.”

The physician gulped. “He- he’s a man of flesh and blood, your highness. If this abuse continues, I will not be able to bring him back.”

Erik heard nothing next. Then the Sultana hissed, “Get out.”

And he was alone, fighting to breathe as the shivers rattled his bones, wounds burning into flesh. He felt the Sultana’s palms on his temples, gentle as they stroked his hairs, barely brushing skin.

The pain put him to sleep once more.

* * *

Through the slit in his coffin, he heard her voice float down, warm and pleasant in the cold.

“You can keep your leg,” she said, “the old man thinks it will heal. You won’t have any use for it, but you can keep it.”

He had forgotten he had legs. He blinked, mind white as he let the dark wash over. It was easier then, to forget about the pain. But the guilt had yet to wash away.

“Erik, the man you tried to save. He’s dead.”

Her knuckles tapped the stone lid. He heard the barest of chuckles, dry. “He tried to run away so we had him shot. He died right there. You might have provided him with an hour more to live, but it was just a waste of all our time.”

The man in the lion’s cage. He remembered the teeth in his shoulder and the rip of flesh. Erik shivered, unsure if he’d made a noise.

“You’re the angel of death. Why would you think you could do anything else? You ruin all that you touch. Just like me.”

He did not wish to be the angel of death. He did not wish to be anything. His fingers trembled.

“We cannot change, Erik. You know that better than I.”

The air had thinned. He tried to breathe, ribs searing as his lungs pushed.

“The Daroga came by the other day.”

Daroga. Nadir. He whispered the name, but wheezed instead.

“He wanted to know if you lived. But he did not wish to see you.”

Nadir, he tried to say again, throat constricting his voice to another wheeze.

“He says you killed his servant- what was the boy’s name?- Abed, yes. I’ve never seen such loathing in a man’s eyes.”

Her tapping stopped, and bitterly, the Sultana said, “He hates you, Erik, hates you more than anyone in the world.”

He felt the tears escape, trailing down until they gathered by his ears. But he did not remember crying, did not know he wept. 

“Tell me, Erik- do you hate me? Do you blame me for that boy’s death, for all this?”

He blinked the water away, still trying to remember when he had started crying. He knew Nadir hated him. He did not need her to tell him, and yet- he shook his head. And for the first time in however long it’d taken him to forget the use of his tongue, he spoke:

_“No.”_

After a moment of breathless silence, she hissed, “No? You don’t hate me? How can you not!?”

He could not answer. She cursed at him. And then her footsteps faded, the sound of her servants following with. And he was alone. But the tears would not stop falling.

* * *

A blanket lay atop him when he woke, the coffin replaced with a bed and the everlasting black at last replaced with a single candle of light. Windowless walls surrounded him, the cramped room devoid of anything save a block of desk and the narrow bed he rested upon. Perhaps the floor was carpeted or wooden. Erik could not see, his eyes unaccustomed to the onslaught of dim color.

Someone had draped a moist towel on his brow and the unfamiliar feeling of warmth tempted him to fall back asleep. Pain still tugged at every inch of skin, sorely asking him to scream. But he only had the strength to moan.

“Monsieur, you’re crying again.”

There was no pillow. But when he turned his head, that masked boy was curled beside him, a smile in his golden eyes.

 _“I am?”_ he rasped.

The child took one of his limp hands in his own, entangling their fingers with both his hands.

“Mother’s always crying too.”

He stared numbly at the boy, too tired to speak on.

“I know what would cheer you up, Monsieur. I can tell you about the birds outside.”

The birds?

“Yes! There’s a lovely little family outside my room. The mother always brings fresh worms to her babes and she has the funniest mate. They all sleep together in winter-”

He remembered the smell of snow, those birds all he could see on the barren tree outside.

“-And it’s the most charming thing. I named them all- there’s Claudette and Jean-Pierre and Jean-Paul and Jean-Claude and Antoinette and Charles and Bertrand and- and-”

_“And Erik.”_

The child went silent. Then he said, softer, “Yes, and Erik. He’s the babe Claudette loves most of all. She keeps him closest to her wings. And all the other babes love kissing him with their beaks.”

He shut his eyes. And the child’s hands were on his face. “Oh, oh, Monsieur, don’t cry! Don’t cry, Monsieur, I’m here. I’m here.”

But the boy was weeping too.

* * *

When his fever broke- or perhaps calmed- they pulled him from the bed and again opened the coffin across the room. He fell, boneless, to the floor, nerves jolted by the impact as he wheezed at their feet. He still did not know how the caretakers appeared, nor did he care enough to look. Shears snipped the gauze away, scratching skin underneath.

The water came next, an icy splash that left him soaked. He cried out into the gag of cloth between his teeth. But they did not bind his wounds as he’d come to expect. He felt a harsh grip on his frame, hands keeping him pinned in place. And then he screamed, the gag choking back any noise he made. The smell of burnt skin touched the air, and as he watched smoke rise, he saw the brand leave his chest, a red mark left under his ribs.

Norrson had done the same once- on his back, yes, he remembered. But he did not belong to Norrson. He belonged to-

He sagged in their grip, again privy to the men’s complaints.

“Did it faint?”

“Get to work before it starts screaming again.”

The brand clattered on the floor. “Waste of time.”

They dressed his hurts- he felt soft gauze- and shoved him back into the coffin, his back smacking against stone. They tucked the gag back in place. But the lid did not close.

* * *

“Erik?”

He knew that voice. He had thought of it a thousand times over in the back of his head, perhaps wishing to forget. Calloused fingers touched his face. 

“What-”

Firm hands heaved him up, letting him fall limp into open arms- a tender grip- that could not possibly belong to anyone here. A thumb brushed his lip. He felt the gag fall away, pulled apart by that warm hand.

“What did she do to you?” the same voice asked, each word a gasp of breath.

He opened his eyes. Broken green stared back. He knew that face, the stern cheekbones, those dark lashes, the shape of jaw and furrowed brow. He knew that face. 

“Erik-”

And as he slipped farther into that embrace, he could not stop the tears from breaking free. 

_“Daroga,”_ he whimpered- perhaps sobbed-, _“Erik- Erik is sorry. Erik is sorry.”_

Nadir clutched at him. And he buried himself within the daroga’s shoulder, too ashamed to lift his head. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's showed interest in this series (and this story)! Here's the next chapter and we see the tiniest bit of comfort rear its head, as well as the start of Erik's third person speak

Nadir felt himself less a man and more of a puppet, a damned marionette strung together by relief and panic in equal turn. He barely recognized himself in the mirror, that image more befitting one of the sad souls wasting away in prison than the Daroga of Mazandaran. But he had no one to blame but his own wandering mind. Darius was perhaps the last vestige of sanity Nadir had left.

The servant kept him groomed and fed, one step above being reduced to a puddle of nerves. He threw out the blood-stained robe behind Nadir’s back and took to spiking his tea with doses of laudanum, the only drug that could put the daroga into a dreamless sleep. And it was just as well, else Nadir would dream of that bloodied robe again, Erik’s broken body in his arms. He relived that moment again and again, the odor of blood stitched to his nose. 

He could not forget. Nor did he want to. The blame was his to shoulder and his alone. And he refused to allow himself a moment’s respite. Not when Erik was dying with each minute gone by.

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Master.”

He doubted Darius had the ability to read minds, but Nadir was almost starting to believe he did. Yes, Nadir had not been the one to place such elaborate traps in the arena, had not gathered a mob of bloodthirsty men, had not released a frenzied lion from its cage, had nothing to do with any of these wretched things. But what did it matter? It had happened. All of it. And he had been powerless to stop a single one.

“Then who shall I blame, Darius? His majesty? Her highness? Erik?”

He had already failed Abed. 

“Master-”

He was failing Erik as he spoke. 

“And I did not grant you permission to destroy my clothes. Disobey me again and I shall remove you!”

Nadir sank into his chair, head caught in his hands. A pang of guilt stabbed at him for snapping. Darius meant well. He knew this best of all. But the servant’s attempts at comfort only furthered his conviction that he carried the most fault. He ruminated on his last meeting with Erik more times than he could count-- if he had been less cold, less eager to condemn the Frenchman for Abed’s death, more willing to see the butcher’s wheel as a cry for help, more concerned with the young man that was _alive_ than the one that was dead, then perhaps it would never have come to this.

And now he did not know how much longer Erik would remain alive. He had not felt this way since the English had captured their angel of death, and even then, Nadir had never been so alone. Now Erik was a prisoner in the very palace he worked and Nadir did not have Norrson to blame. 

That damned physician (the sniveling old man he had once so respected) had not allowed him to see Erik for days on end. Nadir had been dismissed and barred from returning. Each time he’d tried, someone had stopped him and sent him home. And he was forced to live on with the knowledge that the magician- his ghost of an Erik- would never recover from what had been done to his leg. _Crippled._ The physician had avoided the word, but Nadir knew it unspoken. 

And when he sought Erik out again, the room had been emptied. The physician’s men had vanished and only an absent bed remained. He’d thought Erik dead then. And he would have broken down right there if not for Darius steering him away.

“Are you calm now, Master?” Darius asked, kneeling by the chair with a speck of impatience in his tone.

The man looked up, his dark gaze forcing Nadir to meet his eyes. His heart was still in a frenzy, but he nodded regardless. 

“Then I’ll tell you what I gathered.” Darius pursed his lips. “I thought it odd that you were forbidden from visiting the magi- Erik. He’s your responsibility- you should have been the first.”

“I know that. Is this all you have to say, Darius?”

“Please listen, Master. I spoke with the vizier’s man-”

“You would trust _the vizier.”_

“Master, please. Believe me when I say I’m an unassuming man. It was not hard for the likes of me to listen in on things hidden from you. Now, I learned his majesty had not been to see Erik either. He does not know where Erik is and the Sultana refuses to tell. But-”

Darius eyed him, as if waiting for another comment. This time, Nadir had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

“There was talk in the harem. I managed to speak to the maids, those who serve the Sultana’s rivals at least. They say she’s playing a game with his majesty, trying to make him pay for some perceived slight.”

“And she does this by gambling with _Erik’s_ life?”

“Is this not in line with her behavior?”

Nadir sighed. “No. This is exactly like her. What else did you learn?”

“Two important things. Erik is alive. And he’s no longer in the palace. But the Sultana is not keeping him far away. It’s enough distance for the physician to travel to and from in one day.”

“Then you suggest…”

“We find the physician at dawn, follow him, and pray that he leads us to Erik.”

Nadir thought as much. He nodded, tempted to smile. “You’re a brilliant man, Darius. But that doesn’t answer the final question- why were your contacts so complacent?”

“Ah, I may have bribed them.”

“With my money?”

Darius stood, knees snapping straight. "Perhaps.”

* * *

The daroga refused to accept Darius’ tea the night before. He did not wish to sleep. And at dawn, he thought on his choice with some regret, his head pounding with a tension unlike any he’d yet encountered. Feeling rather like rats in the dark, Nadir and his man waited until the physician’s carriage rolled away from view. Then they followed on horseback. And their prayers were indeed answered when the carriage led them into a steep path within dark woodland.

Nadir ordered Darius to stay with the horses, and bracing himself, walked the rest of that trail alone. The track of wheels brought him to a hut half buried in leaves. Upon closer inspection, he realized the tiny house was built of stone, its roof flat and its walls dusted with cracks of age. He circled the hut, estimating it to be half the size of Darius’ room (Abed’s room). He gently tapped the windowless wall with a fist. It was solid all the way through. And he suspected such a structure could house at least one man, perhaps three more before there was no space left.

He pressed his back to the wall nearest a black door, baiting his breath for the doctor to exit. The old man had no choice; there was no other way for him to enter or leave. 

But was Erik truly here? Some part of Nadir almost hoped the magician was elsewhere. _His ribs were broken_. He winced. If Erik was indeed inside, the tight air would do little to aid his condition and the daroga had yet to see what the interior held. Perhaps Erik had suffered Norrson’s mistreatment and survived, but Nadir did not know if he could live through that again. He did not want to know.

Whilst he repeated these thoughts for the hundredth time, the door opened with a low creak. As soon as the physician’s shoe touched soil, Nadir sprung from his place by the wall and snatched the man by his collar.

“D- Daroga!” the doctor cried, more a gasp of shock than anything else.

“Where is he?” he growled, “I’m at my wit’s end.”

“How did you come here? Are you alone?”

His nails nearly pierced cloth. “It’s no concern of yours. Is this where the Sultana keeps him? Is it?”

“I… I can’t- I’m sorry-”

That was all the answer he needed. Nadir released the physician and before the man could run, grabbed him by the crook of his elbow. Dragging him along, the daroga ducked his head and staggered into the buried hut. 

The first thing Nadir felt was the cold, a dreadful chill bouncing off stone walls. Then he noted the smell, a dampness mixed with something foul, like blood and smoke rolled in one. A discarded basin lay by a mattress in the corner, bits of water still within. Kicking it aside, Nadir thrust the physician on the bed.

“Wait there,” he ordered, “you’ll return with me.”

“Daroga, please- you do not want to do this.”

Ignoring the man’s warnings- all of which amounted to how much the daroga would not like the sight he found- Nadir approached the coffin in the corner, propped up and blanketed with black shadow. The lid was half-shut, not unlike a suspended book. He knew then, that Erik lay inside. Alive, he told himself, alive.

“Erik?” he said.

Nadir pushed the stone lid aside. And felt his breath shrivel to dust. 

In the silence, he saw Erik- what remained of Erik- lying limp in the coffin, trying in vain to clutch the edges as he shivered in the dark. Thick bandages kept his shoulder and arm in place, gauze stretching around him from skin to bone, every bare patch of skin colored with welts. The bandages had the appearance of a straitjacket, the closest he had to clothing on his skeletal frame. But even more than his starving bones, his fevered shudders, his face of death, more than all of it, what caught Nadir’s eye was the gag of cloth around his mouth.

“What-”

Nadir pressed both hands to Erik’s face, fingers tracing those sallow cheeks, the swell of broken skin hot against his digits. There were so many bruises that he no longer knew what was so ghastly about that face. Or perhaps Nadir had stopped caring long ago. He only saw the injuries now, some fading and most fresh. He expected amber eyes to stare back, but the sunken lids remained shut. Lungs tight, Nadir reached in, wrapping his arms around Erik.

He saw the source of that charred smell next, a circular burn along the curve of Erik’s lowermost rib. The English had used a brand for livestock. This one, Nadir knew, had been made just for the magician. A single word- **_murderer_ **\- clung to his flesh, pressed in by angry fire. 

He bristled in spite of himself, jaw clamping as he ground his teeth. 

The daroga pulled him out, Erik limply falling against his chest. Nadir’s breath crept out in heaves, nothing short of tears as he tugged the gag out. He had felt this way once- at the English camp- but his rage had helped him through. Here, he only felt the grief spread, legs weak as the guilt overtook any sense he had left.

And thickly, he asked, “What did she do to you?” 

But he already knew. The answer was in his arms, in every cruelty he had allowed to befall Erik. _I did this,_ he thought through his blurring view, _I did this._

Then a flash of gold caught his gaze, Erik’s eyes fluttering open, pained and bewildered as fresh tears slipped freely down his cheeks. 

“Erik-” _Erik, I’m sorry-_

 _“Daroga,”_ the man whimpered, too weak to say anything above a breath, _“Erik- Erik is sorry, Erik is sorry…”_

His whimpers turned to sobs, each word blending into unformed gasps as he cried against Nadir’s shoulder, body rattling in the daroga’s arms. Nadir held him and shut his eyes, the shreds of his breaking heart already ground to soot. 

* * *

There had been a dusty quilt on the mattress, but he chose to leave it behind. Nadir did not want to be reminded of anything from that hut. Forcing the physician along, he carried Erik out the door, determined not to look back. And in truth, Erik hardly weighed anything at all- or perhaps Nadir was too numbed to judge- across the daroga’s arms. His collar soaked with the magician’s tears, Nadir trudged his way back to Darius. If the physician chose to run then, he would not have stopped him. He would not even notice.

But the doctor followed behind, perhaps driven by some unspoken guilt. Erik had stopped crying when they reached the horses, perhaps before, again an unconscious weight, the most brittle thing Nadir had ever held. If Darius felt anything upon seeing the Frenchman, he said nothing. He only made room on his saddle for the old physician and waited for the master’s next order.

Nadir climbed atop his horse, carefully placing Erik in front, and as he grabbed the reins, wrapped his arms around the injured man’s waist. He gave Darius no order. He only spurred the horse on. The servant followed, and in silence, they returned to the daroga’s home, Nadir’s jaw clenching each time he glanced at Erik’s slumped form.

* * *

The physician stayed with them for the duration of the day, perhaps because he knew Darius would not allow his leave, not until the daroga was convinced Erik would live. Nadir placed Erik in the guest room- where he had once slept for so many days- and refused to utter a word while the old man looked him over from the crown of his head to the edge of his foot. 

“She forbade me from prescribing laudanum,” he told Nadir, more of a confession than anything else, “no morphine, opioids, nothing to alleviate the pain.”

But Erik did not need those drugs at the moment. He slept through the inspection, tucked within a thick duvet, allowed a shred of comfort after so long without. Nadir watched the rise and fall of his shattered chest. He thought of the coffin, the gag, that repulsive word burned into Erik’s ribs- and the man had endured it all, forced to bear with it for the crime of trying to save a life. A life that he had ultimately failed. Nadir knew that the prisoner was dead. The Sultana could not possibly have spared him.

His chest again aching, Nadir took Erik’s hand into his own. 

“Daroga, stop,” the physician said, quiet.

The warning was clear. _Not here, not now, not like this._ Not if he wanted to survive in court (if he wanted Erik to survive in court). But Nadir was through with pretending. Hiding had done nothing but lead to Erik’s present condition. Nadir was culpable, as was the old doctor, and he was sick of ducking behind a mask. 

He squeezed limp fingers. And he did not let Erik go.

“Why did she burn him?” he asked dully, “are these wounds not punishment enough?”

The physician bit his lip. “I think… she only meant to mark him.”

As if burning a cow, or less yet- putting pen to paper and nothing more. 

“Mark him? He’s not property. He doesn’t belong to her, not to anyone.”

For a moment, neither man spoke, Erik’s troubled breathing all the sound in between.

“Yes,” the physician said carefully, “do keep your own words in mind, Daroga. He does not belong to anyone.” 

_That includes you._

Nadir knew what he meant. And he knew it to be true. But it cut regardless, perhaps because he had no right to hurt. 

* * *

Erik would never play the violin again. He had two torn ligaments in his left shoulder and in all likelihood, the tissue would never return to the way it was. He could not balance a bow for long and it would be a miracle in itself if he regained a fraction of the strength his arm once had. It was certain that he could no longer snap a punjab, much less kill anyone on his majesty’s behalf.

More pressing was the condition of his right leg. It was not unlikely that the bone and flesh would recover. It was impossible. The limb was little more than dead weight, a bent stick that relied on the brawn of the other calf. And the cane that would accompany Erik for the rest of his days. At the very least, the physician had managed to preserve the broken leg. He could not salvage the rest and as Nadir stared at the swath of bandages around Erik’s foot, he knew already that the toes were gone.

And yet he still thought it some illusion, an unspoken ploy to trick the daroga into thinking Erik would not heal.

By the man’s bedside, Nadir tried to recall the melody of Erik’s strings, the curve of his bow and the texture of wood. He had never cared for the violin’s sounds. Until Erik. If his voice was a hymn unto itself, then his fingers crafted heavens from any tune they blessed. And for so many nights, young Abed had flattered Erik with words of praise simply so the master could hear him pluck those strings again. 

Nadir had been too proud to ask himself. And now he could never ask again.

He swallowed a lump and pressed his palm to Erik’s brow. Fever tingled upon his skin. But his face remained tight with pain, eyes lost in sunken black-- and Nadir wondered why he had ever found this head comparable to a corpse’s skull. Erik was alive and he did not dare fathom how that face would appear should the Frenchman die.

“You’re safe,” he wished to say, “I’ll make sure of it.”

But the words dried out on his tongue. He had promised to keep Erik safe upon their return from Mohammerah. He had promised- in his blind arrogance- and he had failed. When the realization dawned on him, he heard porcelain shatter behind his ears, a thousand pieces breaking into a thousand more.

The daroga had failed from the very start. He was no more a slave to court than his father and his father before. Without his title, he was nothing but a single man, powerless against all else. And he’d been a fool to think himself more.

If he could turn back time, he would have left the masked magician at the Russian fair. He would have turned from his unsightly head and walked away. He would never know the living corpse was named Erik and he would never know he hailed from France. He would have endured Kaveh’s complaints until they returned to Tehran. And he would bear the brunt of the Sultana’s disappointment. Then Erik would wander on- as briskly as he always had, no trace of a limp in his step- and perhaps collect a stray cat on the way. He would live his years without having ever touched the chamber of mirrors, and he would spin that bow until the end of his days, far from the Daroga of Mazandaran.

And Nadir would not be clutching his weightless hand, weeping over a fallen friend. 

* * *

When Erik awoke, he only regarded the daroga with glazed eyes, his breaths muted and a silent numbness on his parted lips. 

“Erik, it’s me,” Nadir said, as gently as his hoarse throat could manage.

The magician’s gaze drifted to his bandaged hand, held up by the daroga’s firm grip. But he did not so much as nod. When Nadir asked if he knew where he was, Erik looked to the ceiling instead. He moved his lips, though no sound came out.

“Do you know me?” Nadir asked, a note of worry creeping through.

Then the man spoke at last, a whispered, _“Daroga…”_ And no more.

“How do you feel?”

When Erik did not respond, Nadir cradled his head and tipped a glass of water down his throat, overcome with brief deja vu as he recalled the days following Mohammerah. Between that nightmare and this one, he did not know which was worse.

Erik slipped from his grip and shifting, turned on his side, back to Nadir’s eyes. The daroga touched his shoulder, wincing when he saw Erik flinch.

“Speak to me,” he said, trying to mask the strain.

But Erik did not. Perhaps before, Nadir would have scolded him, would have whipped him around and snapped at him for being a stubborn gnat. But he had no desire to do so now. Nadir only felt a vague unease that told him something was deadly wrong.

“Erik, we are alone. No one can reach you here. Not the little Sultana, not his majesty-” _Not the English_ , he almost said.

The Frenchman turned his head, ever slightly so that fearful eyes looked into Nadir’s own, blooming panic in his wobbly voice when he said, “Do you… do you still hate Erik?”

Nadir stared at him, helpless and baffled silent. Erik had only referred to himself in such a strange way once, when Nadir had found him in the coffin. He had thought it an effect of pain and confusion, something sure to pass once the tears had dried. Evidently, the damage had yet to end. 

“No,” he said, fishing for the right phrase, “I don’t hate _you,_ Erik.”

And perhaps he’d said it too strongly, for Erik shrunk under his gaze, disappearing into the blankets as he trembled. Erik had never cowered before him. Erik never cowered before anyone. 

“Erik, please,” Nadir said, his own breaths hot, “please- I-”

He wrenched the blanket apart and again, those frantic eyes tried to look away. Nadir climbed into bed beside him and did the only thing he could. From behind, he pulled Erik to his chest, arms locking the wounded man into a soft embrace.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, “I could never hate you. Erik, I-”

He remembered the physician’s warning and with some shame, Nadir relaxed his grip. But Erik made no move to shift away. Nor did he lean in.

“Do you wish,” the magician asked quietly, “do you wish for Erik to leave?”

 _I do not want you to leave,_ Nadir almost said. But that too died on his tongue. Erik should leave before the court destroyed what little of him remained. But where would he go? With his body so damaged, what would he do? 

“He will leave if you wish. Erik promises, Daroga, he swears.”

Nadir could not speak, throat stripped of sound, a cloud of grief all that remained in his head. _Everything I did to you._ His eyes clenched shut, a barrage of images returning- of Erik bleeding in his arms, scars and bones and battered flesh. But he remembered the black frock first, Erik adjusting the brim of his hat as he surmised Nadir- half chilled to death by northern snow- with golden eyes, proud and eternal as they burned. Erik had looked immortal then, the portrait of a man that the world could not hold down, as tall and vain as night itself, vigor in his bones and thunder in his throat.

And Nadir had let them strip him away piece by piece until nothing remained but the broken creature in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Erik,” he said, choking on an untouched sob, the sound drowning out what he was too ashamed to next say: _I do not want you to leave._

* * *

With no small amount of guilt, Nadir admitted that he did not remember the names of Erik’s cats. Abed had known each one, but the daroga always considered them pesky unimportant things. In Erik’s absence, he’d instructed Darius to keep the cats fed but the servant knew them as nameless animals and nothing more. He could not call to the felines- for he did not know what to say- and whenever he approached, they’d scamper away. 

They were like their owner in that sense, always darting away when he sought them out and never budging an inch when he needed his path cleared. But Nadir recognized the ball of white lounging on Erik’s windowsill, eyes closed to slits as it (she?) soaked in the sun. Abed had allowed the cat into his home when they created the makeshift birthday (nearly a lifetime ago). And the damned thing had jumped straight into Erik’s cake.

He remembered Erik laughing at that, a healthy chortle from his healing chest. 

But he did not know when- if- Erik would laugh again. Nadir could not say he’d ever been fond of the magician’s mad cackles, wild bitter noises that threw him on edge each time. But if Erik cackled now- if he so much as scoffed or snorted- Nadir would gladly welcome the sound.

Since waking, Erik had refused to leave that bed. He lay for hours at a time, blankly staring at the carvings on the ceiling or the light glass of a window pane. He had been a restless patient after Mohammerah, sourly lamenting his stay in bed at every chance. Erik had never been weak in body or spirit, and even through that ordeal, he’d pushed himself to live, recovering through sheer force of will and none else. 

But Nadir now housed a different man in his home, one who never spoke above a whisper and silently acquiesced to whatever was required of him. Erik flinched at the slightest touch but he did not protest when Darius changed his dressings or when Nadir slipped him food. He allowed them to poke and prod at him without the slightest hint of complaint, as if fearing retribution should he act like anything more than a mindless doll.

Once, perhaps in his haste to raise the magician’s health, Nadir had lost his grip on a bowl of rice. The grains spilled across Erik’s lap, and the daroga almost expected him to shout, “Daroga, you great booby! Look what you’ve done!” 

But Erik only watched him with those dull eyes before he began picking the grains up one by one. When he finished, Erik pushed the bowl back at him and apologized, a scared mumble between his lips. 

Nadir had wanted to throw the bowl out the window then, to gather Erik into his arms and demand to know what happened in the Sultana’s hut. But he’d steadied his hand and said instead, “I’ll have Darius prepare another. What would you like with it?”

Erik hadn’t replied, as if unsure if he was allowed to respond (as if still waiting for Nadir to punish him one way or another). Chest burning, the daroga left his room and sent Darius in his stead, unable to look at Erik (who was not Erik, not the temperamental boy he’d come to know) for the rest of that night.

Pushing these thoughts away, Nadir returned to his apartment, the white cat scratching at his sleeves. It was Erik’s favorite, he recalled. He entered the guest room and found Erik lying on his side, eyes on the wall and back to the door. 

“Erik, I brought-” again, he cursed himself for forgetting the creature’s name- “your friend. Would you like to see her?”

He placed the cat upon the bed and it immediately nuzzled the Frenchman’s spine, rubbing its head from the back up. Nadir sat, about to touch that shoulder when he saw Norrson’s familiar mark etched into Erik’s skin. When the bandages came off, he would have to see the Sultana’s as well. And he tasted bile at even the thought of these cruel scars, again wishing that he’d been fast enough (knowing enough) to prevent a single one. 

The cat crawled over Erik, coming to rest at his chest. And then the man finally moved, right arm coming to embrace it as he rested his chin upon its head. Nadir prepared to step out again, satisfied that at least one of them had managed to garner a reaction from Erik.

“Daroga-”

Nadir was by the bedside in an instant, eyes wide as he waited for Erik to speak, his voice- for once- more than a wispy word.

“-Thank you.”

The daroga nodded. “Keep her as long you’d like. I’ll have Darius change your bandages in an hour-”

Bony fingers wrapped around his sleeve, almost forceful as Erik said, “No.”

Nadir frowned. “No?”

Erik did not reply, though his mouth parted, as if struggling to connect one word to the next.

“Was Darius too rough with you? You can tell me, Erik.”

The Frenchman gulped. “Erik… Erik doesn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

Nadir felt the exasperation crawl through his veins, slow and steady as it settled, but he did not want to make it known, not when Erik was finally speaking to him beyond timid whispers.

“He’s not Abed,” Erik said.

And he buried his face against the cat’s crown, perhaps hiding tears as Nadir felt the words cut him from flesh to bone, for he’d thought the very same thing not so long ago. He touched his fingers to Erik’s head and slowly, began roaming them under his thin hairs. For a moment, he imagined himself able to heal the man’s wounds with a soothing touch. 

For a moment, he pretended he could protect Erik.

And for a moment, they were out of the Sultana’s reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments/kudos are more than welcome! 
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a one-shot (two chapters at most) but that's clearly not happening lol. I can't guarantee that the Sultana's through with Erik just yet or that the series will stop hurting him after this, but I *can* guarantee that he and Nadir will warm to Darius eventually and that some hopefully satisfying comfort is coming up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone for the encouragement! It really means a lot to know there are other people besides me who enjoy this series! As promised, there's some more #comfort in this chapter.

His cousin had sent him a strongly worded letter informing Nadir that Kaveh was in fact, _not_ the Daroga of Mazandaran and Nadir had no right to shirk his duties onto the shoulders of a man with a babe yet to turn one. Nadir had skimmed over it once and told Darius to reply however he wished. He was perfectly aware that he’d been avoiding his duties. But he had no intention of returning to work until Erik recovered.

“Kaveh always thought he would make a better chief of police,” he’d told his servant, “this is his chance.”

Darius looked at the letter again and said, “I do not think he will take kindly to that.”

“He never takes kindly to anything. I know my cousin well.”

But he knew Kaveh would take the daroga’s duties to heart. And Nadir himself would hear the man’s angry rants when the time came. So while Kaveh held his station, the daroga wandered through the bazaar. A few pickpockets had slipped his way and he’d nearly crushed their wrists. But he’d let them off with a bruise and warning, willing to turn a blind eye to petty crime today.

He passed kiosks of trinkets and silks, the scent of spice and kebabs floating between the smell of dangling rugs and soap on cloth. Bumping shoulders with peddlers and hagglers left and right, Nadir tossed some coins a beggar’s way and faded into the swarming crowd. When he stepped out, he found himself before a front of sweets, a whiff of fried dough and coated sugar giving him pause. A woman greeted him with a crinkly smile.

Nadir swept his eyes over the various treats as the vendor’s daughter approached, and less patient, asked, “What do you want?”

He glanced at a pile of green and white, nougats of gaz. He’d passed this kiosk once before (it had grown bigger since) with Abed by his side and Erik weaving in and out of the crowds ahead, roaming his fingers over any item that caught his eye. It had been the magician’s first time in the bazaar and though he deemed it “unimpressive,” Nadir could not mistake the excitement in Erik’s eye.

“Then if it’s of no interest to you, let’s return,” the daroga had said, “come, Abed.”

“No!” Erik called, and then catching himself, added, “You forced me to come all this way. And I intend to make up for the hour you wasted.”

Erik had shown some interest in a baby hawk, though he thankfully made no purchase. He’d spent his money- the first of many payments from the Shah-in-Shah- on a finely carved lute instead. Then he’d forced Abed to carry it the rest of the way.

Nothing held Erik’s interest for long and keeping up with his brisk steps was a task in itself. Until they passed that row of sweets. The magician’s eyes had lit up like a child’s and he’d demanded the vendor (a man then) explain how each dessert was made. Perhaps too busy to pay Erik’s mask much attention, the man complied. He’d allowed him to try the gaz first, then a bit of funnel cake and toasted ranginak. 

“Try the candy floss,” Abed piped, having forgotten how much he feared Erik.

And as they decided on which treats to buy, Nadir stood with the heavy lute, growing ever irritated by the sweating crowds and their childish penchants. Erik had been choosing between a pile of Turkish delight and ranginak when Nadir said, “I did not think you one for such frivolous things, Erik.”

The vendor shot him a glare, but the daroga paid him no mind. Nadir had thought he imagined it then (but now he was not so sure) when the smallest flash of shame passed Erik’s eyes. He bought two pieces of delight and gave one to Abed. The other, he’d kept in his pocket, perhaps unwilling to eat it in front of Nadir.

Now the daroga stood before that very same shop, the vendor’s widow awaiting his answer. He picked up a piece of gaz and said, “Everything. I shall buy all you have.”

* * *

The physician had left Darius with a pair of wooden crutches and they now rested against the foot of Erik’s bed. But the magician made no effort to test them out. He preferred to stay wrapped in that duvet, the cat perched in the crook of his right arm and sometimes the side of his bandaged chest. From time to time, Nadir caught him whispering French to the animal, words that amounted to nonsense from what he could pick up-- “nest,” “birds,” “mother’s mask” and so on. Nadir had meant to tell the old doctor about these new ticks, but never found the heart to ask.

If Erik wished to speak gibberish to his cat, then so be it. At the very least, he was speaking. But Nadir knew it best if he started walking again as well, though he was loath to see that limp. And the daroga finally knew how to entice Erik out of bed.

Then upon his return from the bazaar, Darius scolded him for pushing an entire cart of sweets home. 

“Pardon me for saying so- this is a waste of money, Master,” he’d said, “these will last a month at most.”

But Nadir had ignored his chides. “Wrap these for me, Darius.”

The servant did not retort. And for the rest of the day, he took to his orders without so much as a sigh. Nadir left the cart in his yard- for he did not know what else to do with it- and retreated to Erik’s room. The Frenchman was sitting up, balancing his cat while it scratched at the thick sling binding his left arm. He did not acknowledge Nadir, perhaps because he did not notice.

But the cat glanced at him and with a hiss, scrambled away. It ducked under the bed as Erik tried to lure it back out with a soft, “come.”

“Erik,” Nadir said, coming to sit at the edge of that bed, “I think it’s time you tried one of the crutches.”

Erik looked down, fidgeting with the fingers on his good hand. “Do you want Erik to leave?”

“No.” Nadir sighed. “I only want you- _Erik_ \- to walk. You hardly have any muscle left. If you keep lying here, it will only make moving more difficult in the future. Do you understand?”

The other man did not answer, frame tensing as he waited for Nadir to speak on. But the daroga had grown accustomed to these bouts of frozen panic. It did not mean he was used to it.

“Erik, nod if you heard me.”

The Frenchman obeyed.

“I am not forcing you out. I already told you- I would never force you out. But I want you out of bed. And you need not do it alone.” But Nadir knew that even had Erik wanted to, he could not do it alone, not if he could only use one crutch. “I can help you. Darius can help you.”

Erik continued watching his fingers and Nadir wondered if anything he said had entered the man’s ears. Then Erik shifted, pulling the blanket back. And Nadir realized he had reached- perhaps unknowingly- for Erik’s hand. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” had become a phrase he and Darius uttered to Erik by the hour. And with each assurance he was forced to make, the tighter Nadir’s chest became.

He did not want to say it again. He only hoped Erik could come to understand.

“We can go outside,” Nadir told him, enunciating each syllable, “anywhere you want.”

Erik eased back into place, relaxing his grip on the duvet. He showed no sign of replying any time soon, but he seemed to have concluded that the daroga would not do him injury.

Nadir smiled, forcing his grim lips to curve. “Do you remember the greenhouse? You begged me to come see it but I was always too busy.”

That much was true. In the days following Erik’s recovery from Mohammerah, Nadir was left to handle his work. His majesty did not use him as an assassin, but the daroga made a number of arrests that month, detaining anyone who showed the slightest sign of aiding the Emir of Herat. He’d interrogated each individual one by one, and when the Shah was satisfied, he received permission to release the men innocent of conspiring against his majesty’s name. The rest went to prison and he’d been run ragged thinking of ways to save them from becoming the Sultana’s amusements.

He had not told Erik or his servant, for he’d thought it best not to trouble Erik whilst he healed. Or perhaps he’d thought the magician would not care (or perhaps, in the most doubtful part of his mind, Nadir had worried Erik would undermine his efforts and do whatever the Sultana wished). And the damned greenhouse had seemed such a shallow thing compared to cases of life and death. Nadir never made time for it because he did not want to see, did not want to give in to Erik’s vain badgering and waste his hours on a trifle.

“We can go see it together, Erik. Whenever you wish.”

Then Erik looked his way, lifting his head slightly in dull hope. Perhaps because he’d finally heard something he wanted to hear.

“The greenhouse,” Erik said, the word curling softly on his tongue, _“la serre.”_

He looked as if he wanted to say more when a knock from the door startled him into looking back down. Darius entered and before Nadir could scold him for the noise, said, “Master, there is a man outside. His majesty has sent for you.”

Nadir cast Erik a final glance, the man slipping further into the duvet as he tried to hide. 

“Watch over him,” he told Darius, eyes still on Erik, “I have business to attend.”

He stood. Then he heard Erik say, “Daroga- no- no-”

Nadir pulled the blanket to Erik’s chin, and deciding against touching his brow, said, with another forced smile, “I shall be back before nightfall. Let Darius know if you need anything.”

Horrified, the magician shook his head, and voice shaking, said, “Erik will come with you.”

Nadir steeled. “No. You stay here. I shall be most displeased if you dare follow.”

Then taking his leave, he added, rather hastily, “Nod if you heard me.”

Erik nodded, mute.

* * *

Nadir met the Shah-in-Shah alone. His majesty had requested a private audience and the daroga chose to comply. He would have approached with more caution if the little Sultana had summoned him instead, but the Shah’s messenger had been clear-- there would be no one else but the shadow of god. And part of Nadir- a long buried away memory of a boyhood pact- told him the Shah would not harm him.

Nadir could not say he loved his king. He felt obliged to serve him and perhaps that was that. But that yet-forgotten part of him still cared for (perhaps loved) the boy named _Nasser._

As he traveled the courtyard, empty of sound save the trickle of fountains and chatter of birds, he remembered a group of children roaming the very same paths. Then, he had only known the prince as Nasser. And Nadir had only been the daroga’s son, perhaps related to the boy by less than a fraction of blood, less a cousin and more another servant of court.

But the prince had never treated him as if he was one. 

Prince Nasser had only been a boy of six, eight years younger than the daroga’s son. When they first met- beyond passing glances and humbled bows- the prince had wandered too far and lost himself in his own palace. Nadir found him sniffling by the stone fountain, the prince trying his best to maintain his royal dignity.

“Your highness,” he’d told the boy, “what happened?”

He’d let the prince sob into his shirt, and hand-in-hand, he’d led Nasser back to his nurses. In the year that followed, Nasser never called for the daroga’s son (perhaps because he did not know he could) but he was sure to seek Nadir out whenever he set foot behind palace walls. At the boy’s request, Nadir helped him with his studies and chased him through the wide gardens. He peeled fruits for the prince and let him doze upon his lap. The only thing he could not do was weave tales of wonder for a child of nine-- even then, Nadir lacked the storyteller’s gift.

But the prince did not mind, for he somehow preferred the daroga’s son- with his lower station, his older years, his sad bearing, his lack of tact- to all his fine playmates, handpicked by his father’s hand. The prince always greeted him with bright eyes, bursts of sunlight behind dark brown. 

And then, without much fanfare, that favor passed. As he grew, the prince sought Nadir out less and less. Perhaps because he’d learned the difference between himself and everyone else. In the end, Nasser withdrew- from his games and tantrums and whatever else pleased a child- and he greeted the daroga as he would any other. And some years later, his favor only fell upon advisors and wives, for he’d realized how little he was allowed to trust.

But Nadir did not come to meet Prince Nasser. He came for the Shah-in-Shah, and when his majesty found him by that same stone fountain, Nadir dropped to his knees and bowed. 

“Rise,” the Shah said, and checking to see if anyone else had come, began strolling away.

Nadir returned to his feet and followed, careful to stay a few steps behind the Shah. Ahead, he noted the man’s rigid gait, as if some brewing trouble sat atop the Shah’s shoulders as well. 

“Daroga, I should not be telling you this, but I have… been burdened with this knowledge for some time.”

“Your majesty?”

“I cannot keep Herat. Amin od-dowleh will negotiate the rest and I suppose we can finally put this nightmare behind us.”

The daroga nodded. In truth, he had not been paying attention to news of the war, not since Mohammerah. “Who else knows?”

“Besides the minister, the vizier and Kabir. I suppose the English would be pleased.” And unable to hide a note of spite on his tongue, the Shah added, “The little emir can call a banquet for days, no?”

Nadir chose to keep quiet. In that moment, the Shah looked less like the shadow of god and more a youth of twenty, a weary boy who had no choice but to accept defeat. It dawned on him then that the Shah-in-Shah was the same age as his magician, no more than a year apart. And again, he felt a sting in his chest-- he thought of Erik, whose mother could not bear the sight of him. Erik, whose very life the rosy court had crushed.

And the Shah walked on, as high and mighty as he had always been and would remain.

Reluctant, Nadir followed.

“But that is not why I called for you,” the Shah told him, “the little Sultana wants you dead. Had you any idea?”

The daroga bit his lip. Then, said, “No. But I’m unsurprised. Forgive me, your majesty- I will not deny what I did.”

“No, Daroga, you’re not at fault. She hid this from me- I never wished to… harm the magician in such a way. Do you believe me?”

The Shah glanced at him, for once looking like the prince he no longer was, as if the slightest bit afraid of disappointment.

“I do, your majesty.”

The Shah nodded, and offered a thin smile. Nadir took that as invitation to speak on: “But why did her highness do such a thing?”

“You were there, Daroga. You know she is the ficklest of my wives.”

 _And the most devilish,_ Nadir thought, not without some anger.

“She did not take kindly to Erik’s… defiance,” the Shah continued, “but I believe her resentment has been building since his return from Mohammerah. She is under the notion Erik belongs to her. And that I had no right to use him. She wanted to hide him from me, you see.”

“You were the one who hired him, your majesty.”

The Shah laughed. “You were always sensible, Nadir.”

The daroga froze. His majesty had not addressed him by name in years. But the Shah did not seem to notice the slip in speech. 

“I do my best to please her,” he went on, “perhaps you’d think me strange, but I love her most of all. I do not deny she is a wicked thing, but I love her. And I cannot stop.”

Nadir recalled the physician’s words. He felt a dryness in his throat. No, he did not think the Shah-in-Shah strange. He of all people, understood.

“But I cannot let her rule over me,” the Shah said, folding his arms behind his waist, “she’s already gone behind my back once. I forgave her then.”

It was an odd reversal of events, Nadir admitted. After Mohammerah, the Shah had allowed the vizier to say whatever he wanted into his ear. He had been most ready to let Erik die. And it had been the little Sultana who braved tooth and nail for the daroga’s words. She had risked everything to bring Erik back and Nadir had eagerly aligned himself with her wild whims.

Now it seemed she wanted her toy destroyed and only the Shah could stay her hand. Not for the first time, Nadir felt himself less than dirt. Perhaps this had been a game between husband and wife from the very start, and the rest of them were nothing but painted pawns, easily moved and knocked aside. 

“So go about your business,” the Shah told him, “I will not allow her to harm you.”

Because he knew, should the Shah offer his protection, Nadir would again fling himself at the man’s feet.

“And Erik?”

The Shah pursed his mouth, a taut edge between his breath. “She will not touch him.”

* * *

Erik had been reluctant to leave his room, and it was only after some coaxing that Nadir was able to convince him to step out of bed and into a set of the daroga’s loose robes (too large for his frame). Nadir made Darius swear to watch the cat for Erik’s peace of mind and promised that it would only be the two of them. There would be no one else to disturb them-- no gardeners or servants or monarchs to please. 

And the most unspoken assurance came from the Shah’s own mouth- the Sultana had no more sway over them. Nadir chose to believe in his majesty, for there was nothing else he could do. 

He’d brought one crutch, occasionally wedging it under Erik’s right arm so he could stagger with the opposite foot. The magician’s steps were shaky and pained, completely devoid of the grace Nadir had come to know, but at the very least, he could move. And after so many days of watching him ill in bed, Nadir did not dare wish for more.

But it was not long before Nadir helped him into a wheelchair, the very same one her highness had sent after Mohammerah. Then, Erik had found the contraption a hassle to use and a sign of weakness that he certainly did not have. Now he allowed Nadir to move him however he wished, unwilling or perhaps unable to protest. But he still had the clarity to request his mask, a sculpted face above a veil of gray.

At the greenhouse, Nadir pushed that chair through each path, strolling his way through hanging vines and rising plants, whiffs of flower and sun in his nose. Two boxes remained tucked in a satchel across his shoulder. Above, light fell in with floral beams, filtered through windows of chiseled glass. 

Erik had been proud of this project most of all, more than the chamber of mirrors and his myriad of trapdoors, perhaps because the greenhouse birthed life and prolonged it, as beautiful inside as it was out. It was made to be loved and love in turn, a simple wish that Erik himself thought too far out of reach. 

“Is here fine?” he asked Erik, parking the chair by a pile of red cushions, makeshift seats for greenhouse guests.

Erik nodded, the light fading through his garb and tracing every strip of gauze and jutting rib, the skin itself so pale it washed into white. Nothing more than the ghost of the man Nadir once knew. But the daroga forced himself to speak as if nothing had changed, as if Erik was not made of tattered scars and crushed bone.

“You put far too many roses in here,” he told Erik, hoping the jab would not be mistaken for actual offense, “one would think you’re biased.”

Nadir lifted the Frenchman from his chair, gently easing him onto a stack of cushions and resting his bound leg on a rounded pillow. 

“Tell me if it hurts.”

But Erik did not reply, and Nadir could only assume he was not in any more pain than he was before. In his last visit, the physician had told them Erik’s body could not withstand any more trauma, most certainly not after how frail he’d become. And Nadir knew- he meant it indefinitely. But glancing at the Frenchman now, he did not see any signs of worsening change. 

Then he sat across Erik and sighed, content as the sunlight warmed his bones. 

“I see now why you spent so much time here,” he said, setting the satchel down and reaching in, “it’s… calming.”

He plucked the boxes out and setting them down, wondered if he should tell Erik that he thought the greenhouse a work of art, beautiful, magical, more than worthy of his majesty’s praise. But such compliments would fall flat. He’d only say it to please the magician’s ego, an ego he no longer had. And he would much rather be honest with Erik, as he should have from the start.

“Your talents were meant for things like this. To create.” _Not destroy._ “I do not say it often because I fear for your hardheaded pride, but I find you brilliant. I always have. And I hope my opinion has as much weight as that of… others.”

He did not want to specify the “others.” He had no inclination to mention the little Sultana, not now and hopefully never again. 

Nadir did not expect a reply nor did he expect his words to register in Erik’s mind. He looked up, squinting at patterns in the glass ceiling. He and Erik must have appeared small to the birds outside, two spots of color behind thick panes, glanced at in the moment and forgotten the next. Perhaps that was how they’d always looked to the Shah and Sultana.

Cold fingers brushed his sleeve.

Starting, Nadir tore his gaze away. Erik was touching the edge of his sleeve, barely meeting skin. 

“Daroga,” the man said, the slightest tremble in his voice, “why are you so good to… to me?”

He’d emphasized _me,_ a word Erik had not used since before his ordeal.

“Erik-”

“Erik does not deserve it. He was not good to you.”

Nadir placed the tips of his fingers against Erik’s own. He never considered himself a poetic man, but he could articulate if need be, and now he did not know how to put his thoughts to words. He did not know how to tell Erik that sharing his fiddle had been enough, cooking him dinner when Abed fell ill had been enough, dragging him out to see the sun rise and set had been enough, forcing himself to stay in court- as it ate him day by day- so he would not sully the daroga’s good name had been enough. More than enough.

And with a crumb of regret, Nadir knew he had not always been good to him, if not impatient and sometimes cruel. _It’s not your fault, Master,_ Darius had said. But the daroga had yet to take his words to heart. 

He did not know how to say all this and more. So he only tried to move the warmth of his digits into Erik’s own and said, “I’m good to you because I want to be. And nothing you say will change that.”

Nadir did not know how much Erik understood of what he said, nor did he particularly care. He lightly returned Erik’s hand to his own side, and pulled at the ribbon around his box. He set it aside and opened another.

“It’s highly recommended to take these with tea, but from my understanding,” he said, taking a nougat of gaz and placing it upon Erik’s knee, “that’s never stopped you before.”

The box of ranginak came next, arranged in symmetrical rows by Darius within their parcel. He placed both boxes between them, wondering if he’d brought too little.

“Take your pick,” he said, “there’s plenty more at home.”

There was perhaps too much at home, much to the servant’s chagrin. 

Nadir glanced at Erik, nervously waiting for the man to react. But Erik stared dully at the sweet on his knee, perfectly still save the breath behind his wrapped ribs. Then- to Nadir’s relief- he pinched the nougat between two fingers and slowly, nibbled beneath his veil.

Nadir scooped a piece of ranginak for himself and popped it between his teeth. It was indeed too sweet and he wanted nothing more than to wash it out with the taste of salt. But Erik reached for another bit of gaz, and if he showed even a hint of a smile in those broken eyes, then Nadir would gladly eat nothing but sugar for the rest of his days.

* * *

She’d told a girl to pluck a rose from the garden and the young thing had brought it back, shaved of thorns. The Sultana struck her and requested another. Now that rose lay atop her pillow, free to show its thorns. _He_ had been the only one who accepted the flower’s flaws. _He_ had never minded when its pricks drew blood. Unlike all the others, who’d been eager to snip and snap at her roses until they were only pale imitations of themselves, false masks of petal and stem.

She turned her head, cheek digging into the pillow’s silk case. A thorn was near her eye. If she moved an inch more, it could burrow through, like a needle and cloth.

Perhaps if she dropped a dozen thorned roses by her husband’s bed, he’d wake blind. Or perhaps she should have dropped them into that stone coffin and watched as the thorns tore into her magician’s gold eyes.

“I hate you,” she said, though the words lacked the conviction she felt.

She had said the same thing when she finally relented to the doctor’s requests. She had stared at Erik on the mattress in that stuffy little hut, his body so ruined that his face hardly looked any more grotesque. And when she placed the damp cloth atop his brow- and when she caressed his wretched face- she said, “I hate you, Erik, I hate you.”

He was an ugly, pitiful thing who did not even have the sense to hate the thorns that gnawed at him. From flesh to bone until there was nothing left. For they were selfish, wicked thorns, hideous things beneath the bloom of rose, and only a fool would think them anything less than monstrous. 

And the Shah had the gall to blame her (when Erik did not). She could not leave her room without one of his men at her heels. For her protection, he’d said. But she knew better. She’d known it from the day the daroga broke into her hut. She’d known it was him before it had even been confirmed. For all his attempts at feigning indifference, the man was as transparent as brittle glass.

Now their Shah (for he was not her Shah) meant to keep her away from Erik. And she knew it was not for the magician’s sake. As far as the Shah was concerned, it had never been about him.

“I hate him,” she’d told her husband- assured him, “I hate Erik more than anyone on this Earth.”

“You will not go near him?”

“Go near him and do what, my lord? I want nothing to do with a cripple.”

Perhaps if they had children, she could occupy her time with a son instead, and not fill her head with angry recollections. Once- years ago- she’d brisked her way through the grand yards, where her fellow wives strolled and chattered. The seventh sultana had asked if she was barren. She could not say. The sixth had said, when she thought the little Sultana gone, “Do not ask such things. She’s a devil come to earth. If her child stole his majesty’s attention, she’d surely drown it herself.”

“Why go through the trouble when I can rely on you lot to do the work!?” she’d screeched at them. 

They’d looked at her with something between revulsion and pity (And not yet fear). She’d wanted to drown that woman, but she died within the year, from a chill and nothing else. And still, she did not say the reason why: the Shah did not want children from her. 

“I do not want to share you,” he’d told her once, half weeping, arms clasped around her waist, “even if you do not raise our children yourself, a piece of your heart would be with them, and that piece, I could never win back.”

Perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps he was advised to not allow her heirs, lest her flaws of the heart pass onto his offspring. For her, it was just as well. She doubted she could love a little Shah-in-Shah. And had her child looked like a living corpse, she would surely have dashed it against the ground.

Even so, she never said it was by the Shah’s request. Perhaps because- then- she still felt that she owed him. 

She owed him nothing now. And there was nothing (no children, no husband, no parents, no work to be done, no sights to be seen) to occupy her time. She reached for the rose, and crushed it in her hand, the thorns slicing through skin in whips of blood. She grit her teeth, clenching her fist as blood dripped through. She watched it stain the pillow red.

Erik had never cared for that thorny sting. Clutching her bloodied fist, the thorns still pressing into flesh, she climbed out of bed and walked to the door. She looked at the guard outside- another of her husband’s mindless men- and said, “Fetch the vizier. I wish for his company.”

Erik would surely hate the sting then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and as always, comments/kudos are more than welcome!
> 
> There are maybe 1-2 chapters left of this story before we move on to the 6th piece. This chapter was the calm before the storm *winks*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to everyone who's supported this series! Really means a LOT to me to know there are other people besides me interested in this- truly! That said, hope you enjoy this chapter and the aforementioned storm...

“Is Erik capable?” the Shah had asked him, “I was told that his injuries will have a _lasting effect._ Daroga, what is your observation?”

And in the Shah-in-Shah’s company, Nadir had kept his expression passive. “His body is… not what it once was. But I assure your majesty that his mind is no less brilliant.”

Then the Shah nodded and said, “You understand that I cannot leave him idle for long- I do not want my magician’s skills to rust.”

Nadir had agreed- perhaps too eagerly- and taken the Shah’s assignment home. His majesty had learned that Erik was up and about, and like the rest in his employ, was curious as to why he had not returned to court. There were rumors, Nadir knew, that Erik truly had died in the arena, in spirit if not in body. If that were the case, the court had no use for a man (once so beloved by the Shah and his wife) who could no longer work. And Nadir did not dare hope his majesty’s grace would extend to Erik indefinitely. 

The magician was not nobility, by blood, rank, or otherwise. If he was nothing in Persia, then he was even less in his native France. From the start, he had earned his keep with what work he could produce, no matter how rancid or demeaning the task. When he could no longer entertain the little Sultana, no longer serve the Shah’s demands, no longer improve upon the palace walls- it did not matter what he’d endured in Mohammerah, what he’d risked again and again- he was a ruined toy and nothing more. 

And broken toys had no place in the rosy court.

But Erik had nothing else. And to that end, Nadir tried clinging to what little he had left. The Shah understood he could not be the angel of death. And with the Sultana’s demands contained, Nadir had thought the days of killing were far behind. Erik could move on, an engineer and nothing else, as he always should have been.

Then, papers in hand, Nadir returned to his apartment and rushed into Erik’s room, only remembering that he’d forgotten to knock a moment too late. But Erik had not noticed. The Frenchman was sitting in a chair by the window, his white cat nestled at his feet. A box of half-finished ranginak rested on his lap. 

“Erik, I’m back,” Nadir said, coming to the man’s side.

Amber eyes brightened, if only by a fraction. Erik was looking better- much to Nadir’s relief- the worst of his bruises having faded into nothing. He was still sickly, but no longer deathly ill, and his wounds had begun to scab over. His face, for all the horror it once caused Nadir in the past, almost looked itself again- ghastly and pallid, but slowly freeing itself from the grip of contusions and blood. 

On occasion, Erik would seek to cover his face up. But spells of disorientation prevented him from remembering to do so. And Nadir liked to believe Erik had become so accustomed to his presence that he did not mind keeping his face bare. Perhaps because he finally understood that the daroga would not harm him.

“I have something important to share with you,” Nadir said, replacing the box on Erik’s lap with the Shah’s papers. “Do you recognize this?”

“This,” Erik repeated, running his right hand over the fading sketches. He stopped by a scribbled note, evidently not of his own writing. “This is…”

Nadir touched that hand. “His majesty wants you to build a theatre. Remember? The one you first proposed to him, a grand theatre within a palace of his choice. He must have been pleased with the greenhouse.”

“This is- he wants a puppet theatre.”

There was a note of confusion in Erik’s tone, something Nadir could not quite read. The daroga lightly squeezed his hand. 

“Yes. His majesty knows you’ve been ill. He wanted to start with something light. It will be the same design, just smaller.”

“Fake people should not be on stage,” the magician said, half-faltering.

“They won’t be ‘fake people,’ Erik. There will be puppeteers. Besides, this is for the Shah’s children- I’m sure they will enjoy it regardless.”

Something stirred in Erik’s eyes, an offended sting. He shook his head. “It wasn’t for the Shah’s children.”

“I know-”

“It wasn’t for them.” The words jumbled together, overlapping as Erik struggled to speak. “Not for them. It was for- for-”

Nadir cried out as the papers flew off Erik’s lap, the magician knocking them away with a swipe of his good hand. And seeing what he’d done, Erik gulped and bowed his head, still muttering those words under his breath.

“Erik, look at me!” Nadir snapped, regretting his tone as soon as he heard the words leave. 

Erik shrunk back. Sighing, Nadir touched the Frenchman's chin and tilted his head up. He met those lost eyes, and trying (likely failing) to not sound vexed, said, “Erik, you have to do this! _You have to._ Understand?”

There was a wetness about Erik’s eyes, as if tears were gathering. Leveling his tone, Nadir added, “Why does this bother you?”

“The theatre… it was supposed to be for,” Erik babbled, “it was planned for-”

“Tell me.”

“-the little Sultana.”

Then Erik said no more, falling mute as Nadir released him. He again hung his head, squeezing eyes shut in shame. And not knowing what else to do, Nadir held Erik’s head to his chest, the papers left to the cat’s mercy.

* * *

The papers rested in the daroga’s study. Nadir did not want to leave them in Erik’s room, lest they do anything worse for his mood. The Frenchman had refused to say more about the puppet theatre after his outburst, no matter the amount of coaxing. At first, Nadir had thought him afraid of the Sultana’s wrath after whatever horror had transpired in the stone hut. And yet, he knew what he’d heard in Erik’s breaking voice had been some twisted guilt, not the fear Nadir had expected. As if the magician somehow felt at fault for the Sultana’s precious theatre becoming a stage for children. 

If anything stirred fear within the man now, it was the expectation of punishment for his panic (for his failure). 

Nadir wished his assessment was wrong. But he knew Erik well enough-- even when he was sound in mind and body, he did not think failure was something allowed him. He had never thought himself deserving of grace. And perhaps the hut did not force Erik to develop any new fears, perhaps it had only forced out all the fear and doubt already there, like festering wounds. Because if nothing else, Erik had always thought himself expendable, a life that meant nothing.

Erik had thought so in Mohammerah (and so, he’d endured) and he had thought so in the Sultana’s arena (and so, he’d endured) and he had thought so in the hut of stone (and so, he’d endured- until he no longer could). And Nadir did not know if anything he said or did could change that; if he could not penetrate Erik’s barriers when the magician still had a sense of worth, then he could certainly not do it now.

But the daroga did not want to give up. Because he knew he had been the one to deliver Erik to the rosy court. Or perhaps- deeper still- he knew without Erik, Nadir would crumble as well.

And as he ran over these thoughts again, Nadir heard a knock at his door. 

“Master, you have another letter,” Darius told him, “from-”

“Kaveh. I know. Leave it in the study.”

Stepping out, Nadir asked, “Have you finished setting the table?”

“Yes. I’ve moved Erik there as well.”

“He let you?”

“I told him you would be waiting.”

“Ah.”

He thanked Darius, and bearing the servant’s not-so-passive complaints about the amount of sweets still in their home, Nadir made his way to the garden. Per his instruction, Darius had moved a square table outside and placed the garden chairs at each end. A pitcher of rose water sat atop the surface and two full glasses filled the space beside, plates of funnel cake set in the center. And Erik reclined in one chair, a crutch by his side as he fed bits of cake to the cat on his knees.

The cat licked his hand and as far as Nadir could tell, Erik smiled, a short broken curve of thin lips. The Frenchman looked at peace, if only by a fraction, and somehow the sight gnawed at him. It was an ache Nadir was familiar with, one that chewed within him whenever he saw the other man in pain. 

He did not want to disturb Erik yet, did not want to remind him of the court and all its horrors just yet. As he watched Erik feed the cat (for once, unburdened by anything else), Nadir turned to Darius instead and said, “I never asked you. Does his face bother you? I- just now realize I never warned you.”

“Hamid told me about the magician’s visage,” Darius replied, “I knew what to expect.”

“You did not answer me. I won’t judge you, Darius. I care for him, but you have no obligation to- you’ve done enough for the both of us already.”

“I did what any man worth your employ would do.” A smirk touched the servant’s lips. “And I did not answer because I cannot. You see, Master, I still do not know what he truly looks like. Whenever I look at him without his mask, his face is always covered with wounds. Perhaps I can judge once I have the chance to see him healed?”

Nadir smiled, unable to resist the weary tug of his mouth. “I hope that chance will come soon.”

Darius lightly bowed. And when he went back into the apartment, Nadir joined Erik at the table. This time, the cat did not hiss and scurry away. 

“Are we enjoying ourselves?” Nadir said, taking a sip of rosewater.

Erik glanced his way. And perhaps he smiled.

Nadir had wanted to discuss the Shah’s puppet theatre with him again, but any thought of doing such a thing shriveled into the wind. The daroga said nothing. He only refilled Erik’s glass and reached under the table to touch his hand.

* * *

Erik had agreed to build the theatre. It had taken days and days of painstaked convincing, but he had relented at last, perhaps under the impression that it would please the daroga. Nadir had told him time and again that the sultanas would accompany their children to the puppet shows. And yes, the little Sultana had no babes of her own but his majesty would surely invite her to see it. And she would surely be pleased by the tiny theatre. Erik had doubted his words each time, until eventually, Nadir said they would both take the blame if this project failed.

“Will his majesty punish you?” Erik asked, again with that air of timidity Nadir would never be used to.

“I don’t know.” 

The magician thought for a moment, and eyeing the fingers of his left hand, still bandaged and suspended by the physician’s sling, said, “Erik will do it, Daroga.”

“Good,” Nadir said, patting the Frenchman’s good arm, a habit he’d developed in the past weeks, “good. His maje- _I_ will be very pleased.”

“You will?”

“Yes. Erik, you’ve no idea how relieved I am.”

Erik beamed. And not for the first time, Nadir wondered how he would look with a normal man’s face. He imagined dark lashes and a pointed nose, the cheekbones covered with healthy skin and those lips pink. Erik had once said his mother was beautiful. And in that moment, Nadir realized- somehow- Erik looked like her. The shapes were there, malformed perhaps, but existent nonetheless. Had Erik been a fraction more fortunate, he would have been the lovely son that unknown woman always wanted. But those features only existed as a sign of irony, of beauty that should have been but never was.

“Daroga?” Erik said.

Nadir blinked. He still had his hand on Erik’s arm. He removed it quickly. “You ought to smile more, Erik.”

And then, he’d left Erik to his own devices. The man always worked better when he was undisturbed, though Nadir instructed Darius to bring him tea at intervals. And as Nadir looked through Kaveh’s stacks of unopened letters, he heard the heavy thuds of the crutches from the guest room. Erik was not keen on touching them, but since their trip to the greenhouse, he’d been more willing to use them of his own accord (to please Nadir and his man, if not for a small taste of agency). 

And Nadir admitted the sound filled him with some relief. The physician had called the crutches a step towards recovery, and the daroga was inclined to believe him. He’d once thought recovery an impossible feat, for he doubted any man could heal twice from such violent attempts on his life (and Erik had never been a lucky man). But he was beginning to believe in the physician’s words, and he hoped Erik did as well, though he knew the Frenchman no longer paid attention to these discussions.

He picked up Kaveh’s most recent letter. While he prepared to break the seal, Darius rapped on his door. He set the envelope down and permitted the servant to enter.

“Master,” Darius said, unease in his eye, “the vizier is outside. He wishes to speak with you.”

* * *

If Nadir was cold towards the vizier, then so be it. He hardly acknowledged the man beyond letting him into his home. As Darius brewed tea for their guest, the daroga led him to a sofa and sat across, eyeing him like a hawk. The man’s face was impassive- a touch sour perhaps, but that was the norm for him- and his demeanor was relaxed, no signs of tension in his bearing. But Nadir did not miss the constant tapping of the man’s index finger, a sure hint of coming unease.

“Daroga, I’m glad you’re in good health,” the vizier said, “it has been some time since I last saw you at court. I believe your cousin has been working in your stead-?”

“Kaveh. Yes. My men are in steady hands with him.”

The vizier nodded. Neither man said more, the seconds droning on before Darius returned with a pot of tea. He poured for the vizier and excused himself. When his steps faded, the vizier touched the brim of his cup.

“The magician is with you, I take it?”

Nadir sipped from his own cup, swallowing the heat without first blowing. He had no intention of answering.

Picking up on his unspoken dissent, the vizier frowned. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ His majesty says the magician is working on a new project for him- it’s most fortunate that Erik is well again.”

His tongue burned. It was for the best. Nadir was sure he would have snapped at him otherwise. The last time the vizier had called upon them, he’d been powerless to stop him from harassing Erik in bed, the man too weak to do anything save comply. 

“Will he join us?” the vizier asked.

“No. He’s working on the Shah’s assignment.”

The vizier nodded. “I’m glad. Truly.” He looked down. “I know I’ve never seen… eye to eye with him, but that day in the arena, I took no pleasure from it, Daroga.”

“I did not expect you to,” Nadir quipped, a little too roughly.

The vizier cast him a friendly glance, a smile pasted upon his face. “Daroga-”

But Nadir was in no mood for falsities. “I ask you to drop the formalities. Why are you here, Vizier? And what can I say to make you leave?”

The vizier pursed his lips, perhaps taken aback by the sudden attack. He met Nadir’s gaze for a good moment, as if deciding how to speak. Then he steeled his gaze. “Very well. I heard Erik was… mentally deficient.”

The words hit Nadir like lead, but he kept his expression unmoving, hands clenched upon his lap. 

“Go on,” he said dryly.

“You know as well as I that his majesty has no use for a man in this condition. I admit that Erik’s talents were vast-”

_Were._

“-but if he can no longer contribute, his majesty will need to find a replacement, perhaps several. And there’s the matter of his apartment-”

“His majesty has _not_ replaced anyone yet. The apartment is still Erik’s, and he is still the court magician.”

“Daroga-”

The daroga had heard enough and he had no inclination to listen to the man’s voice anymore. Had the vizier spoke on, Nadir would very well have thrown a saucer at his face. And that was a confrontation he did not want. 

“Darius!” Nadir called.

When the servant appeared, the daroga ordered, “Show the vizier out.” 

And to the vizier, he said in a low threat, “I assure you, Erik is perfectly sound of mind. Tell his majesty and the others not to worry.”

The vizier looked about to reply. Then he thought against it and cast the daroga a glare instead. He did not bid Nadir farewell, and without acknowledging the servant, left their home, a hint of anger in his steps, as if returning the daroga’s own threat.

Fire still in his blood, Nadir went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of cool rose water. Cursing within, he swallowed the drink bit by bit, roaming his burnt tongue over the soothing cold. He did not doubt that the Shah could have sent the vizier-- his majesty had not had the chance to look upon Erik yet and the physician’s reports could not have been flattering. And yet he knew the Shah would not have sought to replace Erik so quickly, not until he had the chance to see the magician (and Erik would surely be able to stay his magician) himself. 

He downed the last of the water. It was the little Sultana. She must have sent the vizier, perhaps to say those exact words. Perhaps she wished to see if Erik was still alive, to see how much damage she had wrought and could still wreak. If that were the case, Nadir ensured disappointment- he was not letting either of them near the man.

Nadir set the glass down. Two hours had gone by since he’d last seen Erik. When he returned to the guest room, he found Erik sitting at the foot of his bed, sketching upon a clipboard in his lap. 

“Erik,” he said, as gently as he could, “may I see?”

The Frenchman looked up. And nodded.

Nadir smiled. He approached, bracing himself for a rough set of drawings. Erik was left-handed, so the Shah would surely understand if his work was not up to par without his left arm. It was nothing a ruler could not fix-

“Erik,” Nadir said, the surprise in his voice catching himself, “I-”

He stared at a page of scribbles, incomprehensible black lines squiggling in and out of one another. And the vizier’s words pounded in the back of his head, rough and loud and burning. His tongue hurt.

“I cannot show this to the Shah,” he said. 

He took the paper from Erik’s lap, squinting at the lines, perhaps hoping that there was some hidden meaning behind it.

“Daroga, are you angry with Erik?”

His head light, Nadir sat beside Erik. “No. I- Erik, what am I looking at?”

“The puppet theatre.”

Nadir shook his head. “I don’t think his majesty will understand. Can you draw another one, Erik, one like you used to?”

Erik’s gaze was blank, as if he did not understand. But he nodded, and Nadir could say nothing more.

* * *

Kaveh barged into his home long past nightfall, a swirl of beard and cloth. He did not let Darius take his coat and instead marched straight to the garden, where he found Nadir smoking his pipe. Before the daroga could greet him, Kaveh smacked the pipe away and seized him by the shoulders.

“Did the vizier call on you!?” he demanded.

“Kaveh!” Nadir cried, “settle down! You look like a madman.”

“Oh? _I_ look like a madman!?”

Kaveh released him roughly and muttering curses to himself, removed his cap. He ran a hand over coarse black hair and said, “You don’t answer my letters, you don’t check on your office, you don’t show in court- you might as well be dead! What’s wrong with you, Nadir!?”

“I thought I made it clear to you, cousin. I’ve been getting my affairs in order.”

Kaveh poked his shoulder with a thick finger. “Affairs? That’s what you call it? Everyone knows you’ve been with the magician.”

“And what of it? His majesty tasked me with watching him.”

“Come off that excuse!” 

Kaveh glowered at him, his eyes so accusing that a retort died in Nadir’s throat. Then his cousin spoke again, slower and hushed, “I don’t know what it is you see in him, but I know for a fact you would never risk your name for just any man- there are rumors, Nadir, about you and him- is it true?”

Nadir scowled. “Did you come to ask me about gossip or have you actual news?”

“Ah, so it is.” Kaveh sighed, eyeing Nadir as if he was a boy again, a book easily opened and flipped. 

“What does it matter to you, Kaveh? I’ll return to work soon enough and you’ll be relieved.”

“It matters because I don’t want you to _die,_ cousin.”

“I’m sure his majesty will not care what I do behind closed doors. And I assure you, my friendship with the magician is just that and nothing more.”

Kaveh shook his head, and gesturing, said, “I’m not worried about the Shah. It’s the little Sultana you need to watch out for. She won’t stop until you’re killed, Nadir.”

Then, snorting, the man added, “I told you this magician was more trouble than he was worth.”

Nadir would have fought him on that phrase, as he once did that day in Russia, but he had a more pressing question on his mind. “What does this have to do with the vizier?”

“She sent him to see if you were still residing in Tehran. And if you still had _him_ with you. I knew about this days ago, so I wrote to you- but clearly, you have an allergy to returning letters.”

“His majesty promised to keep her away. I see no reason to fear.”

“His majesty can change his mind and pray for forgiveness later.” Kaveh paced. “Trust me, cousin, between you and the Sultana- his majesty would choose her without a second thought. A man’s heart is a dangerous, terrible thing.”

“And if I choose to trust the Shah?”

“Then you’d be an idiot. Not that you were ever a bright one, Nadir.”

Kaveh stooped to retrieve the pipe. Then rising, he dropped it into Nadir’s hand. “Cousin, be careful. I ask nothing more.”

He replaced his cap and walked off, leaving Nadir rooted to the spot, chest pounding and mind spinning, himself lost to the silence closing in. He held the pipe between his fingers, the texture of smooth wood moist with sweat. And he did not move until he heard the familiar sound of the servant’s graceful foot.

“Darius,” he said, “did you hear?”

“Everything, Master.”

“Kaveh is… not easy to get along with, but I trust his judgment. I think- I think I’ve always known.”

The daroga looked up, glancing at the myriad stars above. “I could order you to pack our bags now. The three of us could leave tonight, but I cannot ask that of you. And where would we go? What of his wounds?”

Darius came to stand beside him, arms folded behind his back. “I know. It is… not an ideal place to be. But if you will allow me to speak, perhaps there is another way?”

Nadir held up his hand.

“Perhaps her highness will spare you if she thinks you and Erik are not as close as the court believes.”

“Elaborate.”

“I hope you take no offense when I say this- my _predecessor_ was killed because she wished to test him, yes?”

Darius never used Abed’s name, for he did not believe it his place. But the word he used instead never failed to make Nadir ill, as if his boy had never been worth more than his rank.

“Then you go behind her back and steal Erik for the Shah-in-Shah. As far as she’s concerned, you’re loyal to at least one of these men. And she knows how much you care for the magician’s life. Logically, it must be because he cares for you in return.”

Nadir felt the dread seep in, bit by bit with every new word sprouting from Darius’ mouth. Because he knew it to be true. If the Shah were to turn a blind eye, even for a moment, the Sultana would have her way. If she wished the daroga dead, she would surely target his accomplice next. Darius would be killed in his name as well. And perhaps Kaveh too for his words of warning. That left Erik alone at her mercy. If his death followed suit, it would be a peaceful end. But should she choose to keep him alive, as she had in that hut-

Nadir shuddered. 

“How do I do this then, Darius? How do I make her think I am nothing to Erik?”

The servant hesitated. “I would have suggested you two stage a fight, but he won’t be able to in this state.”

Heart leaden, Nadir felt it sink, pushed up only by waves of terror. 

“Master, you know what to do.”

* * *

He had been excessively gentle with Erik in the morning, offering as many forced smiles as he could and taking care to comb the thin hairs atop his head. And in turn, Erik had smiled- in peace, if not in mirth- and slipped his hand into Nadir’s own, perhaps unconsciously, having come to trust the daroga at last. He was recovering- healing- and finally starting to shed that shell of childish meekness. 

Erik was _better,_ however incrementally, and Nadir bled each time he looked upon him. He felt the blood drip behind his ribcage, twisting his chest to shreds as he prepared for what was to come.

“You do not have to forgive me,” he’d told Erik, “if you cannot- if you do not. But know that whatever I say, whatever I do- I won’t mean a word.”

Erik had nodded. But Nadir was unsure if he understood any part of Darius’ plan. Even so, there was no less trust in those amber eyes, that face finally free of cuts. He’d wanted to apologize to Erik right there, but he knew he would have broken down if he did. And he would never be able to carry out what he’d so painstakingly planned. He had requested an audience with the Shah and the little Sultana, to apologize for his transgressions. His majesty had thought it a splendid idea (quite the opposite of what Kaveh thought), and upon arriving at the palace, Nadir took the lead, leaving Darius to help Erik with his crutch. 

There was trepidation in Erik’s steps, a certainty that the Frenchman did not wish to be here. But he’d agreed for Nadir’s sake, he knew. And if any stares bothered him, Erik did not seem to perceive anything except the path ahead. If not for his bound limbs, the masked magician looked as he always had in court. Darius had suggested they bring the wheelchair, but Nadir refused. It would be for the best, he’d said, and in retrospect, as he heard the pained steps behind his heels, he wondered if he was simply being overly cruel.

When he finally looked upon the Shah and his wife, the Sultana did not greet him. She remained seated, a cheek in her palm as lazy eyes regarded him with a cold weariness. But her eyes flickered when the magician arrived, as stunned as the Shah that he’d come.

Nadir nudged Erik.

“Your majesty,” the magician said. Then he looked to the Sultana and froze. A good second passed before he uttered, “Your highness.”

“I am pleased to see you in the flesh,” the Shah told him, a sincere smile on his face.

Erik did not speak. Nadir nudged him in the ribs and hissed, “Thank his majesty.”

Erik obeyed and the Shah nodded. The Sultana however said nothing, putting on an air of seething indifference.

“Your highness,” Nadir said to the Sultana, each word venom in his throat, “I apologize for causing you such… distress in the past. I come here today to ask for your pardon.”

She frowned, a telltale sign that he was most certainly not forgiven. But the Sultana did not comment on his request. She only glared at them both and said, “Do you regret it, Daroga? Saving your man’s killer?”

Nadir tensed, but he declined to speak. He sensed Erik shrinking beside him.

“Erik,” the Shah said, eager to steer the subject away from the Sultana’s mouth, “how is the theatre coming along?”

“The theatre?” Erik looked to Nadir, and when the daroga ignored him, said, “the puppet theatre?”

“Yes. Have you finished your plans? I am most looking forward to them,” the Shah went on, a note of impatience behind his tongue.

“No,” Erik said honestly.

The Sultana perked. And Nadir gulped, eager to start the act so it would end. He grit his teeth, and shooting a glare Erik’s way, growled, “No? Erik, you said it was finished.”

Panic flicked through the magician’s eyes, his mind no doubt trying to remember when he’d said such a thing. He shook his head. As the Shah cried out, Nadir turned on the Frenchman and grabbed him by the collar. He shook him as he had so many times before, trying to remember what he’d felt then-- dirty, angry, betrayed, every nerve simmering as he glared down the laughing monster and his beastly sins.

“No?” he shouted, “No? I bring you to his majesty and you dare say such a thing!”

As his grip clenched upon cloth, he felt Erik try to squirm away, eyes alight with fear. And somehow, he still ventured to say, “Daroga-”

When his fingers touched Nadir’s hand, the daroga thrust him to the ground in an abrupt release. It would not be long before the Shah’s guards pounced on him, but in that moment, they would observe the spectacle, and that moment was already far too long for him. Erik’s crutch clattered against tiles, skidding from his stunned grip. He curled in, the sling unraveling around his shoulder.

Nadir kicked him in the side. “I risked everything for you!”

And as the insults came- “You lied to me!” - he fell on Erik- “How dare you!?”- and straddled his torso. He ripped that mask off, mindlessly cursing as Erik wriggled. He pulled his fist back.

“I ought to kill you! For what you did to me- to Abed!”

The fist cracked down. And holding the sickness in, Nadir continued his spiel as his fists fell against flesh and bone, Erik making no attempt to retaliate.

“-He was like a son to me, and you- you!”

His knuckles were red, the crunch of each blow echoing throughout the hall. He smashed his fists against Erik’s face again and again until that skull of a head ran slick with blood. Erik coughed, choking beneath him as Nadir beat his very breath out.

_“Daroga, stop at once!”_

Shivering, Nadir looked to the Shah, a guard already rushing towards him at the man’s command. He gulped, and casting Erik a glare, stepped off him. As Erik lay sputtering, features obscured by that mask of his blood, he whispered- or rather wheezed, _“_ Désolé- désolé-”

Nadir spat at him. When the guard touched him, Nadir shoved his arm aside and prostrated before the Shah, sweat and blood mingling wherever he touched.

“Forgive me, please- forgive me, your majesty.”

And before the Shah could say much else, Nadir bid him farewell and stood to leave. He rushed past Darius, and turning back, glimpsed the servant helping Erik sit up, the magician’s battered head lolling against his shoulder. But the look of utter shock on the Sultana’s face had been real.

In the courtyard, Nadir knelt beside the fountain and retched into the grass. He sunk to his knees and buried his head in those bloodied hands, coughing apologies to a man who could not hear. 

* * *

Nadir returned to the apartment hours after Darius and Erik. He doubted the Frenchman wanted to see him and he had no intention of looking Darius in the eye. He wished for his pipe, but he knew himself undeserving of even that respite. Lacking appetite, he went to the washroom and cleaned his hands until the skin rubbed raw. Specks of Erik’s blood remained on the edge of his sleeve. 

Cursing, he ripped that piece of offending cloth off. Perhaps he had made the wrong choice- he _must_ have made the wrong choice. Erik had been recovering. And Nadir had ruined it all because he was too afraid to leave the Shah’s reach. 

_“What other choice do we have?” Darius had asked the night before._

There should have been another. The daroga should have thought of another. He splashed water on his face, washing away the sting of salt and sick. And thinking of Erik’s battered cries, he hurried to his room, shutting the door behind and falling upon that bed. 

He wondered what his father would have done, perhaps for the first time in his life. The man would have killed Erik then and there, for surely it would be more merciful than putting him through more pain. But Nadir was weak and he could not give Erik the peace he needed because he was too selfish to let the Frenchman die. He only wanted Erik to live, regardless of consequence, regardless of how much more pain he had yet to face.

He had once prayed that Erik would stop these acts of terror, that the magician would end his sins and salvage what little remained of his soul. But what harm could Erik do to anyone now? What could he possibly do to bring more pain upon himself? And the answer, it seemed, was nothing. Erik had done nothing to warrant that beating. 

_A necessary evil,_ Nadir had called it in his head. Perhaps it was not necessary and he had only done what he always wished to do. But if so, then he felt no satisfaction, only an ever-plummeting sense of guilt and loathing. How many others had beaten Erik in the past, he wondered, and how could anyone have taken pleasure from such a thing? It baffled him in the worst of ways. 

A knock sounded against his door. Thinking it Darius, he said, reluctant, “Enter.”

And in place of Darius’ pragmatic tone, he heard Erik’s lilting voice: “Daroga, are you still angry?”

Nadir shot up in bed. Erik stood heaving at the doorway, half leaning against the wall, the crutch nowhere to be seen. Nadir held up the candle on the table beside, its wick nearly spent. He saw a hint of fear (and perhaps hope) in a wide amber eye, but no touch of rage. 

“No,” Nadir said, shaking his head, “I told you. I- I didn’t mean a word.”

Keeping the candle near, he stood to help Erik in. Holding him above the waist, he guided Erik to the bed. They sat together and Nadir looked upon him, mouth drying at the sight of his beaten face. Darius had cleaned off the dried blood, but Nadir’s handiwork remained in a multitude of cuts and blackening bumps. Erik’s right eye was swollen shut, a long cut along the corner of his lip. 

“I’m sorry,” Nadir told him, voice cracking as he stared down, “Erik, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Daroga,” Erik said, hesitantly reaching for Nadir’s hand.

“What are you saying!?” Nadir hissed, “it is! I hurt you. There is no excuse for that.”

“Erik knows… _I_ know you didn’t want to hurt him.”

I; Nadir could not remember the last time Erik referred to himself as such. He glanced up, meeting Erik’s good eye as the Frenchman struggled to speak on.

“Erik- I- am sorry for what happened, Daroga.”

“Stop apologizing,” Nadir said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You weren’t- weren’t at fault.”

Erik gaped, unsure what to say. Nadir pressed his hand, perhaps too strongly, and said, as firmly as he could manage, “Erik, nobody has the right to beat you. Not me. Not the Shah. Not the Sultana. And-”

He looked at the scars on that thin wrist. “-Not yourself.”

Nadir did not know if his words would stick, but he squeezed Erik’s hand again for good measure. Then he released the other man, hoping Erik would take his statement to heart. When he turned, Nadir felt Erik’s thumb come to rest at the corner of his mouth. 

“Daroga,” Erik said, a tear gathering at the edge of his left eye, “you ought to smile more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, kudos/comments are more than welcome.
> 
> "white silence" was actually supposed to be a one-shot with this chapter as the crux of it, but clearly that didn't happen. Next chapter should bring this story to a close (and I... apologize in advance for the actual storm- this was just the lightning!).
> 
> Would any of you like to see Erik's pov again? I originally planned for the majority of this fic to be from Nadir's, with some of the Sultana's perspective, but I do have some ideas on how Erik's pov would go. And I know he's been very emotionally and physically dependent on Nadir in this story (with good reason, I hope!), so rest assured that it's not a permanent development for this series- it's just going to take a lot of time for him to recover mentally/physically (which won't happen any time soon since the #hurt keeps piling up but it will, promise).
> 
> Lastly, this is a 5 + 1 series and after this story closes, we'll finally get a glimpse of happier days!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter! Thank you again to anyone and everyone who's shown interest in this story! As promised, Erik gets a pov segment this time. I apologize for the rest of the storm, but I hope you'll all trust me when I say this series will not end on a tragic note.

Erik was beside him in the morning, awkwardly curled at the edge of Nadir’s bed. His leg allowed for little movement and he’d shifted so his bound arm faced the air. The daroga sat up first, trying to recall when they’d fallen asleep. They had chattered into the night, about what- he could not recall (likely nonsense, words to fill the air)- and perhaps both too exhausted from the incident at court, drifted into a dreamless sleep. He’d intended to escort Erik back to the guest room, he remembered. Evidently, that did not happen.

Nose still stuffy from past tears, Nadir pinched its bridge. Then he glanced at Erik, forcing himself to look at those new injuries in the daylight. He imagined his finger tracing that sallow face, rubbing across each cut and violet bruise, the broken skin dotted with swollen bumps. The cut on his lip had scabbed over, looking much like a line of thread across his mouth. Had Erik a nose, Nadir had little doubt it would be bent cartilage now. Instead, he stared at a crust of scabs in place of blood. And above, one shut eye remained a ball in black, a misshapen lump under Erik’s hairless brow.

But Erik did not look like a living corpse. He appeared alive, some dim color having at last returned to his face, independent of bruise and blood. He would never be handsome, but Nadir dearly wished to see his visage clear of wounds again.

It was only when he saw a wisp of hair tuck behind Erik’s ear that Nadir realized he had moved his hand onto the Frenchman’s head. And a sharp stab of guilt plunged into him again when he saw the bruise atop his knuckle. He had beaten the magician with a mindless fervor, each moment burnt into his mind as he recalled the sound of fist on flesh and Erik’s cries of pain. 

Eyes floating down, Nadir glimpsed the imprint of a sole on Erik’s chest. His ribs had yet to heal and Nadir saw it fitting to strike him there. The daroga shuddered, once more accosted with a shame he could not take back. 

“Daroga?”

His attention snapped to Erik’s head, the Frenchman now staring back with his one good eye. Something akin to a smile touched his bruised mouth.

And it made Nadir’s teeth clench. How could Erik bear to look at him, let alone smile? Because he had told him to? 

“Does it hurt?” Nadir asked him, feeling as if he had been the one beaten instead. He rather wished it had been him instead.

“No.” Then he added, “Erik is better.” Desperately, perhaps hoping that answer had been what Nadir wanted to hear.

“How can it not hurt?” Nadir said, the last word breaking as he rubbed his hand over Erik’s head again, brushing the hairs with an airy touch.

Erik hesitated, in awe of Nadir’s palm. And then, quite eagerly, leaned into the daroga’s touch. When Nadir did not stop, the magician let loose a sigh, something between relief and joy.

“Erik will finish the drawings today,” he told Nadir, again smiling up, “he promises.”

“No,” Nadir said, “rest, Erik. Just rest today.”

Erik’s fingers came to perch on his wrist. Yes, Nadir remembered- he’d ripped that blood-stained sleeve off the night before. No cloth separated their skin now.

“Daroga… if Erik rests, will you stay with him?”  _ With me? _

Why? Nadir wanted to ask, but he found nothing but trust in that bright eye, a trust the daroga surely did not deserve. And even so, he could not resist succumbing to the words that left his mouth:

“Always. I will always stay with you.”

And for the rest of the morning, Nadir did not move. Not until Darius knocked on the door and informed them breakfast was prepared.

* * *

She held the candle to the wall, creeping along as its flame licked the night. Her pitiful crow deserved that beating. This, the Sultana had no doubt. But the sight of his blood upon the daroga’s knuckles did not level her temper. It had quite the opposite effect (she seethed) and she’d cried for the daroga to be flogged for his transgressions. The Shah ignored her tantrum and she’d nearly brought her bandaged hand to his face. Of all the men in court, he was the only she could not strike.

“How dare he?” she’d said, “how dare he!”

The daroga had harmed her crow, thrust him to the ground without a beat’s hesitation and rained fist after fist atop his head. And she’d recalled that mob of prisoners, frenzied beasts out of her control as they tore Erik apart. They were all slipping from her grasp-- the prisoners, her magician, the Shah’s daroga. She could scream and shout to her lungs’ content, she knew, and they would still do their damndest to defy her wishes.

Erik was hers. Hers to coax and hers to break. The daroga had no right to lay hands on what was hers (and neither did the Shah-in-Shah). Is that why he stole Erik then, she wondered, for revenge? To do exactly as she was doing, and act in the right? And she’d been fool enough to believe he loved her crow?

No, she saw it now. The daroga had never cared for Erik beyond his own livelihood. He was just like every other man in court, and Erik was the dog he’d been tasked to watch. She wondered if Erik knew, if he knew his daroga was another dreary face in court. It disgusted her. Mohammerah had meant nothing to him then, for the daroga now sided fully with the Shah. What did it matter what she’d risked for him? For Erik?

She’d wished the daroga dead not so long ago, if only to further reprimand her crow. Now she was not so sure. His demise would bring about nothing, for surely Erik would rejoice in his captor’s death. She let these theories ruminate, but they did nothing to quell the ice building within her veins. She hated the daroga for tricking her into thinking him different from their Shah. And she hated him for daring to touch Erik.

The magician was not his to harm. 

And her rage swam deeper, for she knew there was nothing that could be done. She would not let Erik have the pleasure of the daroga’s death. She would not let the daroga have the pleasure of the magician’s pain. And she would not let the Shah have the pleasure of keeping them all in his lock and cage. She was sick of their little tricks and shocks and these twists that slipped farther and farther from her grip, like grains of sand through finger cracks. 

Then let their sand burn to soot.

She stumbled into the rose garden, once so beloved by Erik, and gnashing her teeth, dropped that candle in. The blossoms went up in flames and she watched the embers fly.

* * *

Erik was there. And yet not. He saw Erik in glimpses, something half lucid in the shadow of glass. Sometimes he could hear Erik speak, hear him say exactly what he’d meant to say, but a world apart. He knew Erik’s voice and he knew Erik’s hands, but the scars were his own. The pain had been his. Erik was a ghost and he was the corpse.

The boy was the corpse’s most steadfast companion. He liked to play with the stump of his foot, where five toes once stood.

“I will show you the birds outside,” that boy would tell the cat, amber eyes smiling behind his mask.

The boy named his birds. Flashes of Claudette and her wings, and the little things she called babes. Erik was her favorite bird.

“Claudette loves Erik most of all,” Abed would say.

Sometimes, when the boy was gone, Abed would sit with him in their room. Sometimes Abed spoke. Most of the time, he only stood in the window’s light, garbed in the same robes they’d buried him with. He knew Abed was not there. And yet-

Like Erik, Abed was. He simply was.

And then a voice cut through, rippling these glass figures, so much louder than their pleasant whispers. 

“Nod if you heard me,” it often said, low and commanding and a hum all the same.

It was Nadir. It had always been Nadir. And he somehow knew that Nadir was not in shadow. He did not stand behind glass. He was present and solid and his skin was warm to touch. And Nadir was always asking for Erik.

He wondered why. Erik had brought Nadir nothing but pain. Erik had hurt Abed. Erik was always hurting Nadir (he still remembered all the things Erik used to say, all the terrible things he said and did). Erik had hurt so many people and he could not forget the sound of Erik’s laughs. It was a horrid cackle that made him shake. Erik was everything the corpse did not wish to be.

But Nadir did not hate Erik. Nadir said so again and again. He cared for Erik as much as he did the corpse. But he did not know why Nadir cared for the corpse either.

The corpse was weak and slow and too easily scared. He was scared of stone and shadow and the sound of feet. He could never say what Nadir wanted to hear. And he was too stupid, too clumsy, too frail to do anything on his own. He knew Nadir should not bother. But Nadir did.

And he knew Nadir wished he was more like Erik, that he had half that talent. The corpse could try, but a screen existed between his eye and mind. He saw the cloth but could not thread the needle through. He put lead to paper and imagined walls the way Erik once did-- he knew where the seats would go, how high each ledger would, where the stage would face and how the firelight would hit.

But only white silence made it through.

“We can try again,” Nadir told him. “Can you do that, Erik?”

He would always nod. The boy liked Nadir too. And he knew- Erik did as well.

And Abed- if he blinked, Abed became someone else, a man with deeper set eyes and a sharper nose. That was Darius. Perhaps it had always been Darius in his room. 

But he did not mind Darius anymore. As long as Norrson was by his bed. The Englishman spoke to him when the others were gone. He’d laugh at the crutches and tell him about the birds outside. But it always sounded so cruel from Norrson’s mouth.

He remembered Norrson’s blade against Erik’s skin, remembered how he’d talked about his wife back home and his friend from France, all while he sliced Erik to little bits. Bands of scar crossed his torso and crossed again. Norrson liked to touch his scars and he never pulled away.

“It’s what you deserve,” Norrson would say, to Erik. And to the corpse.

But Norrson was gone when Nadir arrived. When Nadir held his hand, touched his head, it made Erik- the corpse- feel as if the pain had gone. His wounds never ached when Nadir was with him; something else stung him instead, a strange pleasant pain that made him wish Nadir would never leave.

Even when he knew he was not worthy of Nadir’s touch. 

He deserved Nadir’s fists against his skull. He deserved the knee upon his cracked chest and the blows that crushed his face. He deserved to know what he had done to Abed. This was the way it should have been. He knew this well enough.

But when Nadir was gone, Erik wept. He felt the shifts of Erik’s heart, like paper on sand, grinded over stone until it split into crumbling bones. He missed Abed. And he wished Nadir was back. The corpse wished to hide away and never come out. Erik wished for Nadir to beat him again.

It was the boy who remembered what Nadir had said. He hadn’t meant to hurt Erik. But why not? Why not?

He did not know how to ask. And it seemed Nadir had no other answer. If Nadir had wanted to hit him again, the corpse would have let him beat Erik to his heart’s content. But Nadir had told Erik no one had the right to beat him. Not even the corpse. It was all he could do. And in the morning, Nadir did not leave. Nadir did not leave him the day after. Or the day after that.

Not even when Darius told him the Sultana’s rose garden had burnt to smoke. The boy did not know the Sultana and Erik no longer cared. But she made him ache as well, made him wish the corpse could raise her garden with his hands.

“Erik! Erik!”

He was weeping on the floor, the crutch fallen and salt in his cuts. The water stung his eye and the bumps from Nadir’s fists. He thought of those red petals gone in flames, the little Sultana rubbing ash beneath her eyes. Roses with thorns. Roses without. Gone. All gone.

“Erik, we can plant a new garden. No one was hurt.”

Nadir’s arms wrapped around him. Nadir rocked him back and forth. Nadir wiped his tears and told him it was not his fault. But it was. He knew it was.

But when Nadir spoke, it was so loud. He did not hear. All he knew was that the glass had cracked. And those faces faded- the boy, Abed, Major General Norrson- and they were alone. He did not want the silence, but he wanted Nadir.

“Paper? Is that what you want?” Nadir asked.

Yes. Please, Daroga, bring it here.

His hand shook so hard that Nadir steadied it with his own. Nadir had steadied his hand when he sliced Abed’s cake. But now, as the tears fell- he- Erik- drew the lines that came to mind. He saw the theatre now, a jagged mess, line over line of mistakes that the corpse could not see. He saw them all now.

And he amended each. He never wished to see this plan again.

When he finished, Nadir laughed. Nadir held him and praised him for what he’d done. But he could only cry, sobbing as the twitches pushed his hand.

* * *

The magician had come through in the end. It had taken well over a month, but he had finally made the plans his majesty required. The daroga’s man delivered his blueprints at dawn and come noon, the Shah-in-Shah looked them over with his men.

He had let the Sultana sit nearby, perhaps out of pity for her ruined garden. She had certainly pretended to grieve. They spoke of the puppet theatre as if it was some grand feat and not some brainless exercise they’d imposed on an invalid.

From what she could glimpse, the plans were not impressive. They were a far cry from Erik’s usual work. The lines barely connected and those sketches looked no different from a child’s scrawl. The Shah had been magnanimous, she supposed, for excusing this sloppy piece-- he knew Erik’s left arm could not be used. Perhaps he would never be able to use it again. She rather hoped so. It would serve him right for not letting the lion have its way.

“Your majesty,” the vizier said, “this vexes me. If he can still work… even in this state, what’s to stop him from doing the same elsewhere?”

“Erik is loyal to me,” the Shah quipped.

The Sultana bit her lip. He had said quite the opposite when the English captured her crow. And it seemed her husband had not been assured otherwise until she’d proven just how much of himself Erik had allowed them to break. But there was nothing left to break now. If Erik escaped to the Emir or Sultan or whoever else wished for his lackluster skills, there was no stopping him.

“For how long?” the vizier told him. “And I believe we have no further use for him. This is simply my advice.”

The Shah did not reply. 

“There is nothing else he can do for you. But it would not be difficult to recreate his work elsewhere. And then where would that leave us?”

She expected the Shah to tense and tell the vizier to keep silent. But he did no such thing. He stayed where he stood, a crease in his brow, as if he was thinking of what the vizier said. As if he was considering the very possibility-

“Erik is more loyal than anyone here,” the Sultana said hotly.

It was not her place to speak. But she did not care- let them punish her. What could they do when she held his majesty’s heart? A heart saddled in her hands. 

The vizier eyed her strangely, shocked that she’d spoken in the magician’s defense. He would speak again, she knew, tell his majesty of the extent of Erik’s wounds, insist he would no longer care for bodily punishment, convince him Erik would betray them without a second thought.

He said all these things and more. She could not strike the Shah. 

The Sultana felt the vizier’s cheek upon her hand, a resounding smack from her palm. She made to strike again when rough grips pulled her back, crushing her shoulders as they pulled.

“Let go!” she demanded, “let go! I’ll have you all killed!”

As they dragged her out, she watched the Shah. He did not move. He did not speak. And he did not protest when they yanked her by the arms. If he was livid, the slightest bit enraged that they had dared lay hands on her, he only showed it through a clench of jaw. For all her flailing and screaming, the little Sultana could not do much against five men crying for her to calm down.

When they returned her to her chambers, she found blood beneath her nails. She’d opened the wounds on her hand. And she had scratched her fingers across the nearest men’s faces, likely tearing skin with. She should have set fire to the palace instead.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she hissed, though she knew the vizier could not hear.

And their Shah, their mighty, mortal Shah had listened like some fool. The vizier was a snake of a man, little better than her crow, and she knew he’d jump at the chance to humiliate Daroga Khan, if only to oust Erik (for he’d always feared the magician would replace his office in court). He should have been the easiest to control, with his easy whims and qualms. She had not accounted for his envy to run so deep, for his mind to move so slow (What had Erik to offer their Shah-in-Shah now? What threat could he possibly pose to the vizier?).

And again, another pawn had slipped through her bleeding hand. Like all the others. Perhaps she had been the pawn instead. Perhaps they were right and Erik’s condition was another show-- tomorrow, he would run to India and build a grander hall of mirrors for their king. And she was the fool who thought her Erik was but a crow. 

“Unlock this door!”

She pounded at the wood, screeching for her release.

“Unlock it right now! You will pay! You will pay!”

But she was no fool. 

“Damn you all!”

She knew the Shah thought the same. He always believed what he wanted to hear even when the truth was clear as day. As clear as her voice seeping down the hall beyond.

And then- at last- the door opened. Her fist almost collided with a man’s chest. He caught her wrists and glanced down. The Shah met her wild gaze, a tinge of fear and perhaps satisfaction in his eyes, the look of a boy who had finally caught his tormentor in a moment of defeat.

_ “I thought you hated him,” _ he said, his voice for once cold in all their years of bliss.

“I shall never forgive you,” she told him, the words boiling over, “if you do this, I will never forgive you.”

Guilt passed his face. And just as soon as it dawned, he replaced it with a righteous wrath. 

“So be it.”

And he let her go.

* * *

Erik hadn’t wanted to return to his room the night before (yet again). The daroga allowed him to stay in his bed, and if Darius thought more of it, he did not say. And Nadir did not wish to explain. He stayed on his side of bed, shifting the pillows so Erik at least had a corner to stretch his limbs (what remained of his limbs). Erik was once a light sleeper and perhaps he still was. But he tired easily now. He had tired easily since Mohammerah and Nadir often wondered if the Frenchman preferred his dreams.

But his dreams were far from sweet. Erik did not thrash at night, but he whimpered, muffled words that he’d attempted to gag back with a spot of blanket. But the sight of cloth between his teeth reminded Nadir of the Sultana’s gag and feeling ill, he’d pry the covers from Erik’s mouth each time. He would have held him, but the daroga knew it was not his place. He did not wish for whatever they had to progress more than it was.

“Poor, unhappy Erik,” Nadir found himself muttering rather dumbly- a side effect of his own deprived slumber- when he thought Erik could not hear, quite sure the magician would have struck him for that moniker had he been in possession of his wits.

Erik had been in lower spirits since he learned of the fire in the Sultana’s rose garden. And it had frustrated Nadir to no end, for he’d finally managed to coax smiles from the Frenchman, however small they were. Erik barely had any spirits to speak of and now that garden- one of the few things that brought him comfort, even before all that’d transpired- was little more than dust. Nadir would not put it past the Sultana to burn it herself, if only to upset Erik.

Even when Erik was out of reach, she found a way to strike him in the chest. Once Erik had fallen asleep, Nadir had (quite lividly) journeyed to the greenhouse. He would allow no flames to lick its glass or the plants within. And he’d made Kaveh swear to keep an eye on it for the coming days.

If there was one good thing to come out of all this, he supposed, it was the puppet theatre. 

Nadir had nearly wept with joy when he saw Erik draw, however shakily as their palms mingled, the shape of lines and numbers and things that his eye could note. 

“You did well,” he’d told Erik as the magician wept, perhaps upset that this was all he could do. “You did very well. This is stupendous, Erik, his majesty will be delighted!”

But he knew what Erik wanted to hear. And pulling him close, Nadir had said, “Thank you, thank you for giving this to me.”

Erik smiled.

In the morning, Nadir sent Darius to deliver the plans. When the servant returned, Nadir was taking tea in his room, Erik sitting atop his bed with a cup in his hands.

“We’ll celebrate today,” the daroga told him, “I’ll have Darius prepare a light feast. We’ll sit in the gardens and watch the birds.”

“You’ll be with Erik- me- all day?”

“I will go nowhere today.” Nadir cast him a smile, stooping to blow the smoke from Erik’s cup. “I’ll be here to congratulate you, as will Darius, and Mahin”- the wretched cat whose name he had finally learned- “and we shall all be here when the Shah sends his messenger to commend you on a job well done.”

Erik nodded, a pleased glint in his left eye. The swell on his right eye had subsided but it was evident he still could not open the lids. His bruises had gone from shades of black to light yellow and blue. And that improvement, however small, was enough cause for Nadir’s cheer.

They had their tea and when Nadir stepped away to place their empty cups by the pot, Erik said, “Daroga- thank you-”

Nadir returned to his side, blocks of sunlight washing in. Erik’s hand brushed his own, that light somehow softening the worst of him- the scars and gauze and sallow cheeks- and leaving nothing untouched save the curve of his healing lips. He’d smiled. And pressing his fingers into Erik’s own, Nadir’s mouth touched the magician’s brow.

Erik’s skin was like paper, a shock of texture and delicate all the same, more powder than chalk and softer than bone.

Nadir had kissed him.

He stepped back, pressing a hand to his mouth, quite horrified at what he’d done. Erik’s eyes were bulging, leaving him sitting like a bug lost in air. 

“Daroga,” he seemed to say, again whispering under his breath.

But Nadir had gone by then, shutting the door behind. His heart was racing, he knew, for he’d ignored the physician’s warning. Quite suddenly. He had not had the time to think. It was not a matter of time, or a trick of light, or anything else he could excuse with a spur of impulse.

He pressed his back to the door, hoping Erik would not pursue. He’d wanted this. The revelation dawned on him. He’d wanted to do this in the greenhouse. Even then. 

And there was no denying the thrill he felt, that cacophony of emotions he could no longer attribute to a friend and brother. 

He’d always known. 

He’d always known. 

He had only wished these feelings would stay buried and dim. But how long had he known?

He had despised Erik’s very being once. Then, he hadn’t a shred of affection for the masked magician. Why now, then? He felt his heartbeat even out. Guilt, a sense of protective urgency- it had all spurred him on. And he wondered if he would have done the same had Erik been the same man he’d met in the Russian cold. If Erik was not so weak, not so scared, so battered and broken, would Nadir have held his hand? Praised his work? Held him and smiled and wanted more?

Or would he have left Erik to rot, for the daroga’s conscience would have been clear and he would have no excuse to smooth the damage he’d caused and think himself right. He would have scolded Erik for bringing this upon himself and turned away. He would never have wanted to, let alone try- he would have let Erik die.

Nadir was disgusted with these thoughts. And he felt a rough shame grapple behind his ribs. It left him feeling much like the scum of earth, a man who did not deserve a fraction of the trust Erik chose to show.

He prepared to go back in, to apologize and tell Erik to forget what had happened. And just as he moved, he heard Darius cry-

“Master!”

* * *

The vizier had invited himself in, Darius helpless against the line of men he’d brought. Nadir rushed forward, about to demand an explanation when his mouth dried up-- he knew these men, for they were his own. And behind the vizier, Kaveh stood, so tense he looked about to keel over then and there.

“Daroga, stay out of this and I shall conduct his majesty’s order briefly,” the vizier told him, a statement in plain words, no malice or spite within.

And yet Nadir had never felt quite so affronted. He approached, eyes narrowed. “What business?”

Kaveh glanced at him, a sharp warning in his face-  _ stay quiet, cousin _ . But Nadir only cast him a sharp glare.

“On behalf of his majesty,” the vizier said, walking past him, “we are arresting the magician for treason.”

Nadir heard Kaveh shout his name. But it was too late then. He’d tackled the vizier, his world spilling from the bottle that smashed, everything he’d locked in coming to a head. Kaveh yanked him back, slamming him to the ground. 

But all Nadir could see was the vizier’s rotten face and the mist of his own rage.

“What right!?” he cried, straining under Kaveh’s weight, quite deaf to his cousin’s shouts, “what right have you to say this!? _ I _ ought to arrest you!”

“Mind yourself, Daroga!” the vizier snapped, “or you will accompany Erik.”

He hated the sound of that name on the vizier’s tongue. It was not a name he had the right to use. And as he cursed the vizier with every word he knew, the man only said to those men, “He must be here somewhere. Search every corner, and if he does not comply-”

_ “I’ll come with you.” _

Nadir twisted, eyes landing on Darius first. But the servant was frozen, held back by two guards as the vizier looked to the man who spoke. Erik. His voice had rung through the air, as crisp as day after night, hollow, clean, and like velvet in rain.

He had not put a mask in place. The men stiffened at the sight, even now still terrified of his visage. Kaveh pressed harder, leaving Nadir no room to move, as if he sensed whatever the daroga wished to do. 

“Erik-” he managed to gasp.

The Frenchman limped onward, his crutch heavy as it knocked on wood, the bound leg dragging along with each staggered step. He stopped when he reached Kaveh, gulping in breaths as he stared at Nadir. And the daroga could make out the shape of his ribs beneath those robes, wrapped in gauze and scar. He was stitched with bruises and illness not yet passed. But there was a light in his amber eyes, a breeze of acceptance when he spoke.

“Daroga,” Erik said with a wretched smile, “it’s all right.”

“Erik, stop this! Go back-”

The crutch fell. Erik knelt by him, half lying down as he took Nadir’s hand in his own, oblivious to the block of weight that was Kaveh. And the vizier watched on, perhaps waiting to see what Erik would do.

“No one has been as good to me as you.”

“No-”

“You will have a wonderful wife and happy children in your home. So Daroga-”

“Damn you, Erik! Damn you-”

“Forget your poor, unhappy Erik,” the magician said, guided by the softest smile to have ever touched his lips. 

His hand slipped from Nadir’s own, the vizier’s men- once the daroga’s own- pulling him up. Nadir lay, feebly trying to stretch his hand as he watched them tear the sling from Erik’s arm. Rope lashed his wrists behind his back, and the image seared into Nadir’s mind-- white robes ripping, slivers of gauze behind each tear, a limp arm held with rope, the outline of a spine as the man he loved was dragged away.

Erik made no noise despite the rough shoves and pulls. He did not protest the strain to his shoulder and damaged leg. He limped out with only the help of rope and violent hands. And when Erik’s shadow crossed the threshold of Nadir’s home, the daroga managed to wiggle free.

He’d knocked Kaveh away. And forward, he drove his fists into the vizier’s collar. They fell together and Nadir struck. He struck and struck again, vision misted with the blur of merciless tears. He blinked them away and fought on, screaming all the while as he was dragged away from the cursing vizier.

And the only word he could hear was his own useless cry of- “Erik!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This chapter brings "white silence" to a close. As always, comments/kudos are welcome!
> 
> This is a 5 + 1 story and we've already finished the worse of the worst! Just to reiterate the series summary, "Five times the Daroga watched the little Sultana indulge in her favorite hobby- torturing the magician- and the one time he did something about it." The five times of torture are over, and the next story, things finally change (and maybe, just maybe, our boys catch a break).
> 
> I also want to say that I originally imagined each story in the series as able to stand on its own, but after I started writing, I realized they were all too inter-connected for me to say that in good conscience. But now I plan to bring it all full circle! Thank you all again for giving this series and this story a chance!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and as always, kudos/comments are more than welcome! If you've been following the series since the beginning (or not!), always a pleasure to know what you think. 
> 
> I was originally going to skip all of this chapter and have it be implied instead- but decided to write all the pain down in the end. And believe it or not, there was even more pain planned for Erik at first.


End file.
